Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want
by drollicpixie
Summary: AHS AU. In 1994, when Violet Harmon moves in next door to Tate Langdon, he knows she was meant to be his. Alive, Tate is an obsessed psychopath who hopes to taint Violet, make her like him, but as he watches her, gets to know her, he discovers that there is already a darkness in her. And it makes his want, his need for her, that much greater. Rated M. Violet/Tate
1. Chapter 1

**Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want**

This story is AU. The Harmon family purchases the house from Larry's family (their estate) in 1994. Larry died in the fire with his wife and daughters so Constance and her children never moved back into Murder House. Tate has not yet committed the school shooting and is alive. Rated M.

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of American Horror Story. Only this small piece of fiction is mine.

Author's Note: This week I binge watched AHS for the first time and when I finished, just about watched it through again. And it's been a long while since I wrote a fanfic so I thought I would try my hand at something Violet/Tate. The following is what poured out of me, a little drunk and a little bored, last night. It might be a chapter story, if I continue working on it..

Los Angeles, California

Early 1994

The first time I see her I am standing in the foyer of the house, Murder House. It's not mine, I don't live in it, but I did and ever since we moved next door I have felt the pull of it, calling me, drawing me back through the carved wooden door. I spend more time here than anywhere else, haunting the now vacant rooms, learning the house's secrets.

A car door slams followed by a series of successive sounds. A man and his wife stand on the lawn. My lawn. Our lawn.

The house pulses with desire. It wants them.

And then she's there, the girl, casting furtive glances up at the structure before her. I dart into the next room, hide myself behind the long, dusty drapes left hanging after Larry and his whole fucking family died in the house. Fuck him, I smirk, fucker deserved what he got.

Turning, I glance out the window again. She's small, tiny. With willowy arms and thin coltish legs, standing stock still, a fluffy little dog clutched to her chest. Flowing brown hair, big doe eyes, and lush pink lips. My fingertips brush the glass in front of me, reaching. Her baggy dress hides the rest of her from view, an oversized ratty cardigan covering her shoulders. I want to rip it off her, shove it down her arms, grip her waist and pull her to me. She's all innocent, naïve maybe, but straight grunge. The Courtney Love to my Kurt Cobain a little voice whispers from the back of my mind.

I should have been at fucking school but Westfield High was hell. I hated it. I ran track, periodically checked books out of the library, but avoided classes, the halls, my fellow students, as much as possible. I didn't have a single fucking friend, I spoke to no one. Not that I cared. The only people in the world I liked were my siblings. Fuck everyone else. But this girl, I continued to study her, my eyes roving over her face, her body. Those slumped shoulders and pale hands. I could fucking like her. If I got the chance.

The real estate agent, Marcy, it's always the same fucking woman, is leading them to the door, inside.

"Isn't it fabulous?" she gushes, droning on about the fixtures, like these people, like anyone, really gives a shit.

They move toward the kitchen, the wife, pretty but not like the girl, states, "It could use a little updating."

"Well, sure it could," Marcy replies, upbeat and optimistic, "but you can't beat this price!"

Their dog starts fucking yapping and I risk peeking around the material of my hiding place. It's standing at the basement door. Stupid mutt.

"Violet, honey, would you go see where Hallie went?"

That's her name. The girl. Violet. I grin, I like it, it sounds like violate, and suddenly all I can think about is being inside of her. All tight wet flesh sucking at me, making me a fucking part of her.

"What are you yapping at?" she shakes her head, walking over, silken locks trailing over her shoulders. And takes a moment to stare at the door as well, my hands ball into fists, fingernails digging into my palms, leaving bloody crescents in their wake. I don't want her down there. Not yet.

I'm jolted back to the conversation taking place in the other room as Marcy sighs, saying, "Speaking of the last owners, full disclosure requires that I tell you about what happened to them."

"Oh god, they didn't die in here or anything did they?"

"Yes, actually. All of them."

"All?" It's the guy. He sounds cocky as shit. I'm already thinking about how he would sound with his fucking throat ripped out, gargling, sputtering, choking on his own blood.

"The family, well," Marcy pauses, looking for the right words, the ones that won't make these people run for it, and I grit my teeth, on edge. "I sold them this house. Lovely couple, two little girls, but she was emotionally disturbed. You never would have known to look at her! But one night she just walked into her children's room, doused it in gasoline and ignited the place. Then right into the room she shared with her husband and did the same thing. They all died in the fire but it was put out before it caused any further damage to the house. Now, those rooms have been cleaned, repaired, redecorated, so you don't have to worry about that at all. But, it was just such a tragedy."

The wife again, "You never know, I guess."

"I do have a very nice mid-century ranch, but it's in the Valley," I nearly screamed, "and you're going to get a third of the house for twice the price."

But then my girl speaks up, her big sad eyes suddenly smiling, her voice sweet like honey, "We'll take it," she smirks. And I slip back behind the curtain, my face nearly splitting in fucking two with pleasure.

The next afternoon, I'm cutting again, as a large moving truck pulls up to the curb. Constance is out with Addie, Beau locked in the attic as usual, as I mill around the front room, watching from the side window. I don't see her, my Violet, except for a momentary flash as she swiftly bypasses the men carrying a couch, slipping through the door and disappearing, her long billowing sweater trailing behind her. I bite my knuckle until I taste blood. I need to be patient. I want to understand her before I approach her. I will make her love me. I just need to know how.

She'll go to Westfield, I am almost certain. And so the next day I wait, standing behind a large, manicured bush in our yard, watching. With twenty minutes until first bell I see her exit the house, call something back, then move down the walk. A part of me, a large part, a part that is practically humming, throbbing, with a urge to be near her, in her, wants me to bump into her, ask her if she's new. But I'm not that guy. And she is not that girl. I know that much already. So I let her go past. Count down from sixty and follow.

Her silken hair is covered by a black hat, sitting far back on her head. I can make her out, observe her from this distance, without her knowing, seeing. The red shift dress she wears sways with each step she takes and there is a shoulder bag slung across her chest. Tights and long sleeves, utterly covered up, and so un-California. I groan. Then she lights a cigarette, drops the match onto the street, and blows a cloud of smoke in the air. My lips quirk upward.

As we enter the school courtyard she moves with purpose, striding through the crowd as they watch her. Their bubblegum high school worlds paling to her beauty, her otherness. And I hate them all the more as they turn, stare, sneer. But I hang back, watch from afar.

Leah, the bitch, and her cronies stop, jump down in front of her, "Oh, my god."

"At least it's not actually wearing flannel," another says.

Violet stares back at them, cigarette dangling between two fingers, "What?"

"Where did you come from? Seattle or something?"

"No," she takes a drag, not amused but seemingly uncaring. "Boston."

"I always heard East Coast bitches were ugly," the third chimes in.

"And frigid," Leah adds, tugging at the sleeve of my girl's shirt.

"You don't even know me," Violet replies, yanking her arm back and away, dropping her stick and stubbing it out with the toe of her black boot. I fucking love her boots. I want them digging into the backs my thighs as I pound into her, little dress up around her waist, tights torn away.

Leah picks up the cigarette from the pavement, "What the hell is wrong with you? People sit here. People eat here."

Violet shrugs; people all around the courtyard are smoking. Butts litter the ground.

With a kind of rarely seen fury Leah grabs onto my girl's shoulder, wrenching her forward. "Eat it," she demands, "or I'm going to kick the shit out of you." The followers, the lemmings, look nervous, try to get the bitch to back off but she won't, not until Violet hauls back and hocks a glob of spit at her. And if I wasn't already hard I would be. As it is I could probably pierce metal. I doubt my dick will ever not be hard again after this.

And when I glance back up at the girls, the crowd around them parts, allowing Violet to run, her hair flying behind her, as she turns and smiles, giggles. Leah is screaming and bullshit but I can't even find the brain power to care, to enjoy it, I am so focused on the red shift dress, the girl inside of it, getting inside of her. My life will never be the same. And I know it. And for the first time, in what feels like a lifetime, I am looking forward to something.

I wonder if Violet and I have any classes together but I would guess that she was at least a year behind me, probably a sophomore, so I opt to skip all of mine. Instead I lurk, wandering the empty halls, the library, watching for her. I see her a couple of times. At lunch she is sat on a low wall smoking, avoiding the cafeteria, just like me. I can see her from my place on the roof, my favorite place to go, to hide, to escape them. Everyone.

That night Constance informs me that our neighbor, Ben, is a shrink, some kind of head doctor, and that she has already made an appointment for me to speak with him. "Fuck!" I shout, smacking my fist firmly into the wall of the hallway. That is not how Violet and I meet.

"Tate," the woman who claims to be my mother hisses, furious, a highball clutched in her hand.

"I won't go."

"You will," she tells me, smug with the finality of it, "or you can get the fuck out of this house, you little shit. You have caused this family enough trouble and heartache for a lifetime."

Only days before I might have thrilled at the chance to waltz out the door, really make her worry. Her precious boy, the only one with half a brain, who had yet to abandon her. But I refused to leave Violet. I couldn't, I wouldn't. She was all I wanted. So I would stay. Until I had her, until we could make our escape together, get the fuck out of this place. And where the fuck would you go, a voice whispered to me, cuttingly. The Murder House was the only place I had ever belonged.

Violet and I could belong there together.

Her second day of school was much like the first. Another baggy sweater, a skirt, covered up, hidden from view. I followed, waited, watched. People whispered, pointed, teased, reminding me of all of the reasons why I wanted to see Westfield burn, cleanse the earth of that unholy, rotten place. And all the shitheads in it.

But I still didn't speak to her. Didn't make eye contact. Didn't get close to her, no matter how many times I wanted to. And she never glanced my way either. I sighed, closing my eyes, and imagined her sweet little pebbled nipples in my mouth, my cock in her cunt.

Later, sat on Ben Harmon's couch, he tells me Mother has already warned him about me. He knows about my fantasies. Or at least the ones involving Westfield. Not the ones involving his daughter. Not yet. That is still a secret, and mine alone to keep or share.

So I tell him about the noble war as I stare into his eyes, my legs crossed one over the other, hair falling into my eyes, fingers beating out a rhythm on my knee.

"I'm calm. I know the secret. I know what's coming and I know no one can stop me, including myself." And I can see it: me, walking down the halls at school, my black jeans, my black coat, my face painted like the mask of death himself. Because that is what they have coming for them. Death.

"Do you target people who have been mean to you or unkind?"

How laughable. That would be every person in the world, let alone at that bullshit place. Instead I say, "I kill people I like." That gets his fucking attention, the pen scribbling furiously at the pad of paper on his lap. Cocky mother fucking asshole. I hate him. "Some of them beg for their life," I add, "but I don't feel sad. I don't feel anything. It's a filthy world we live in. It's a filthy goddamn helpless world, and honestly, I feel like I'm helping to take them away from the shit and the piss and the vomit that run in the streets. I'm helping to take them somewhere clean and kind."

I feel the tendons in my neck straining, my hard on burgeoning, just thinking about it. "There's something about all that blood, man." The fucking pen stops moving, his eyes are wary, fixed on me. "I drown in it." Ben Harmon doesn't even fucking know. He can't. He probably couldn't even if he tried.

There are a lot of things he doesn't know. Like that after this session I plan on meeting his daughter. Wandering around his house until I find her. That it's my moment. I know it, feel it in my bones. The house wants it that way and who am I to argue with the house? Who is he to stand in our way?

"The Indians believed that blood holds all the bad spirits, and once a month in ceremonies they would cut themselves to let the spirits go free," I say finally, head cocked, observing him, voice rough, because I honestly do believe what I am saying. "There's something smart about that. Very smart. I like that." He just stares. "You think I'm crazy."

He thinks that it is a question rather than a statement of fact and replies, "No." Bullshit. I just told him I'm obsessed with blood, with killing. This asshole knows I'm fucking crazy. I know I'm fucking crazy. The voices, inside of my head, they tell me I am. There is no peace, no quiet.

And then the conversation turns to Constance and I want to tell Ben he can go blow himself but instead I let him know what a cocksucker my mother is. Maybe she can give him a go. The whore. Maybe he'll leave his wife. Kill her even. And shack up with mother. We can move back here, home, and I can spend every night buried balls deep in Violet, whispering, corrupting, making her my own. Then again, I almost grin, maybe I can do that without living here.

When I'm done bullshitting with the shrink he walks me to the front door, I step through, wave goodbye and wait for him to retrace his steps. He does without a glance backward to see that I have really gone. I smirk as I ease the door open again, the house remaining quiet, still on my side, always on my side.

The stairs creak and the floorboards groan as I slip past room after room, finally peering into the one that used to be my own. It's filled with feminine things, a bra hangs from the corner of an iron bedframe and I bite my lip.

Violet lives, sleeps, breathes, fuck, touches herself, in my old room. But she's not there. It's empty. A few steps further down the hall I notice the open bathroom door. It's silent but I see a flash in the mirror, know that I have found her.

Blood bubbles out of the lines on her arm and I all but cum in my pants, watching her from the doorway, before she notices me, so intent on her task of cutting, hurting herself. I take a moment, lean against the wooden frame and observe her, hands shoved deep in my pockets, head tilted.

When I eventually speak her eyes snap to mine in the mirror, something flashing there. I am unwanted, uninvited. I have to struggle to keep a straight, serious face. I want her so bad, to rush in, to lick the pooling blood from her near translucent flesh. To pick her up, deposit her on the countertop and rut against her until her eyes roll back, her arms around me, smearing that red liquid all over my neck, my sweater.

"You're doing it wrong," I say, "if you're trying to kill yourself cut vertically," I know she's not but I'm looking for something to say with impact. "They can't stitch that shit up."

With angry, burning eyes she spins around, hair whipping around her, "How'd you get in here?" she demands.

"If you're trying to kill yourself, you might also try locking the door," and with that I leave. Violet stands there as I close said door, eyes wide, lips turned down into a frown, her face worried. But on the other side I'm grinning, eyes bright, hand still on the knob. She'll be thinking of me, I know it.

And I will most definitely be thinking about her. I pat my pocket, the back one, bulging slightly, a pair of gray panties stashed there. They were on the floor by the bed, worn, and smelling like her, like the place I most long to be. That wet little slit where dreams come true.

Later, after I have roughly jacked off, the fabric wrapped snuggly around my dick, I inhale them again. Less Violet, but it's still there if I inhale deep. I dart my tongue out, tasting, before sucking, laving, imagining the exact flavor between her thighs. I sleep with a smile.

The weekend rolls around and then another fucking Monday at Westfield. Such fucking shit. I'm still avoiding Violet; my eyes follow her every movement but I remain ever in the shadows, hidden from her gaze. I wonder if she looks for me, if she knows that we go to the same school. I lurk outside, beneath her, my, window. Like a stalker. Maybe I am one.

She listens to music, sad shit, and walks around in her baggy sweaters, shuffling across the room, silhouetted by the lights in the background. She does not talk on the phone, doesn't stare wistfully out into the night. I don't hear her, as much as I long to, but I can watch her, be with her in my own way.

I have a second appointment with her father on Tuesday. He's put me on meds, some anti-psychotic, something to help me control my violent impulses. He should worry about his girl; already getting into it with the girls at school. She doesn't take shit from anyone, doesn't back down, and when I see her with a bloody lip I nearly lose my shit. I want to wreck those girls but Violet can stand on her own. And my dick hardens again at the thought, making me groan, the letterman walking past gives me a startled, menacing glare before moving on. I ignore him.

In Doctor Harmon's office he tricks me into admitting that I'm skipping his drugs, dropping the pills down the drain one by one. But I'm feeling cocky, tell him the real reason I'm staying off his shit, "I was afraid my big dick wouldn't work."

Ben gives me that cocky shit-eating grin of his, placating me, humoring me like a child, but she's there. I can sense her. Just beyond the door to his office and I want her to think about it, to know. "What?" he laughs.

I'm giggling now, "Yeah, that's why I didn't take the meds. I was afraid my dick wouldn't work." He is standing directly between me and her, dividing us. "Because I met someone," I add seriously, no longer joking, and glance just past his elbow, seeing her there, peeking at me, her face hidden by a swath of shining hair, and I meet her gaze, burning, searing myself there. The only thing I want her to be able to see is me.

Violet is mine and I am about to show her just how much so.

When our session is over and Ben shows me out I double back the same way I did last week, slipping upstairs and peering into her bedroom. This time I find her seated, crossed-legged, on the deep purple comforter, a ragged record warbling in the background, some lonely, lost shit that I have never heard before.

A board creaks under my foot and her chin snaps up but she doesn't look surprised, like she always knew that I would find her again. That this would be routine. That we were meant to be.

"You again," she drawls, eyes rolling, annoyance that sounds forced, in her tone.

I ignore the look and step inside the room. "I'm Tate, by the way," I half smile and drop down to sit on the floor a few feet from the large iron bed.

She cocks a wary eyebrow at me and I can see some of Doctor Harmon in her face, her expression. "What are you doing in here, Tate?"

"Being neighborly," I respond.

"Neighborly," she repeats, not amused.

"Well," I shrug, "I live next door."

"And you like to spy on people when they are alone. In their own bathrooms."

I shrug again, caught out, enamored. Throwing myself on the alter I offer up, "I think we're kind of like kindred spirits."

"How so?" She asks, standing, stepping toward me but not sitting. She is wearing a long sleeved maroon top with a floral dress over top. Like a grunge baby doll. Her lips are pouty, glossy, a berry stained deep pink. That mass of silk she calls hair falls down in her face.

I hold up my wrist, pointing out the jagged scar there, "This one I did when my dad left."

And with a deep swallow, her lips parting, she sits down across from me on the floor, her full-skirted dress flouncing out around her, covering her knees. Violet holds up her own wrist, the mirror image of my own, showing me a ladder rung of crusted and healing cuts. Her finger points to the two most recent wounds, "Last week. First day at my new school. Sucks." She is so blasé about it, her fine brows drawing in as her large hazel eyes pierce right through me, seeing me, really seeing me.

"Westfield, right?" I commiserate, waiting, grinning inside, "The worst." She nods her ascent. "I go there."

I have surprised her, I can see it, but immediately her mouth lifts into a manner of a smile. "I've never seen you there."

"I guess I don't go that much," I reply flippantly even though, since Violet began at school, I have at least walked through the gates every day.

"I hate it here. I hate everyone. All their bourgeoisie designer bullshit. Fuck. I buy my clothes at the Salvation Army." She shakes her head, disgusted, "East Coast was much cooler. Like, people just got it, you know?"

"Did you have to leave a lot of friends out there?" I glance down at my crotch, notice my cock twitching, just being there, with her, smelling her, it's too much. "A boyfriend?"

Violet laughs mirthlessly, a smirk already twisting her lips. "No. I guess I'm just not very friendly," and lifts a shoulder helplessly. "I don't play well with others."

"I know," I grin, pride in my voice, "I've seen you with Leah and those cunts."

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the same time and I don't know how she makes it so sexy but I want to kiss her. Just lean forward and press my lips to hers, melt into her, hold her. I bite my lip until I taste copper. "God," she moans and it is the sexiest sound I have ever heard, "you saw that?"

"I see a lot of what you do." And I suddenly worry that I am overplaying my hand, losing the small touch of mystery that I have, my weak advantage. A worthless advantage when faced with her pouting mouth.

Her eyes go wide and I honestly think, for a moment, that she is going to stand up and toss my sorry ass out the door, leaving me worse off than when I began but then something changes and she smirks, a small lifting of one side of her mouth that looks sexier on her than any one should be allowed to be. "So, how come you've never even said so much as hi to me at school?"

My own eyes get wide as I reply, tucking my bottom lip in with my teeth, "Scared, I guess." And the way she looks at me, I know that I am saying all of the right things.

"Scared? Of me?"

"Well," I smile, letting the dimple show, and running a hand through my messy, dirty bleached locks, "you are pretty fierce."

"Me?" She repeats, just a little bit stunned.

"And you know," I glance away, around the room, playing shy, and thinking about where my own bed was compared to hers. How I would happily fuck her anywhere in the room, beds be damned. "You're beautiful too."

I expect her to squeak, to be pleased, to question me, but Violet does none of those things. Instead her mouth quirks, eyes twinkling, and leans forward, closer to my personal space. I match her stance, sharing her air, and tuck a single strand of hair behind her ear.

The record ends, going round and round, silent. I hold her gaze, pulling her toward me with my eyes, but she manages to break away, her gaze flickering to the old portable record player ten feet away from us on the floor. "I'm gonna," she trails off, crawling away. Watching her, on her hands and knees, her dress falling away and giving me a glimpse of the body underneath, my eyes begin to roll back in my head. I'm forced to look away before I pounce, throw her on the ground, press my body between her thighs, and grind my straining, hard cock into her soft, wet little center. It's too soon, I urge myself. I need to bide my time. Make her mine, wholly, utterly, completely. I'm going to taint her. Make her black, like me, like my soul. But when she turns her head around, looks right at me, seeing me, my eyes, watching her, I wonder if there isn't already a darkness there.

As she flips through albums, studying them, before looking to me, studying me, she asks, "Why are you seeing my dad?"

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're smarter than that," and I expect an eye roll, a cutting remark, but my girl, she surprises me again and again. She smiles, tilting her head, hair brushing her arm, as she settles down, once more cross-legged on the rough hardwood floorboards.

"What do you want to listen to," she asks me. "What do you like," but her Cheshire grin tells me that she already has a good idea.

I ask anyway. "Got any Kurt Cobain?"

"You like Nirvana, huh?"

"Don't you?"

"They're alright," she tells me, her fingers steadily paging through the records before her. "I love The Smiths. Morrissey is so cool and he's pissy and he hates everyone and everything."

I cock my head, "What about Alice in Chains?"

Just as she is asking, "Do you like the Lemonheads?" We grin, matching toothy smiles, just looking at one another. We're falling in love already. Just like that. It is that easy. Violet will love me.

"Okay," Violet's eyes glimmer as she grabs a CD from the haphazard stack on the nearby bookshelf, holding it up for my perusal, I laugh a little, nodding my head. "So we can agree on Hole?"

"Oh, yeah," I tell her, watching her nibble her lip and wishing that it was my teeth pulling at the succulent flesh there. "We can agree on Hole." My jaded, sweet, little Courtney Love.

I hear him on the stairs even though Violet doesn't. I am more attuned to the house, but I've had more time. My girl will get there.

And then he's at the door, leaning in, invading our place, our sanctuary, our time together. "What are you doing in here?" And I hate Ben Harmon all the more; I picture bashing his skull in, causing the bones to shatter, to cave in on themselves, destroying his handsome cocky face for my own enjoyment.

"Just listening to music, Dad," Violet replies, her face betraying nothing but innocence, the teasing sarcasm of moments before melting away as she smiles patiently for her father.

"You need to leave, Tate. I'm sorry, you shouldn't be in here and I think you know that. Please." Son of a fucking bitch.

I stand, doing as he requests, but only for Violet's sake. She stares in confusion as I approach him, glancing back at her with wounded eyes, showing her that I'm the victim, I'm the one who needs saving, and seeing the wheels turn behind her eyes, as she casts disbelieving looks at Ben. It's there already, a hardening to him. Something that happened before me, coloring her view of him, and I see it for what it truly is, a chink in the armor.

Pushing my advantage I walk toward him, toward the door, and away from salvation. "What's that thing you think I'm afraid of? Fear of rejection?" I say with angry eyes, shoving past him, into the hall.

"Stay away from him."

"Dad," I hear her utter his name like a loathed curse as I run, torn and frantic, down the flights of stairs; both running away from and toward Violet, depending on how you see it.

Ben Harmon and his smug fucking face. It's pretty and really begs to be smashed to a fucking pulp. He thinks he's won. He told Violet to keep clear. Why don't parents ever seem to understand that the most powerful aphrodisiac for a teenage girl is to be told to stay away from a guy she likes? She'll be begging me to get her off, to slide right into her cunt, in less than four weeks. Looks like this year I'm going to have a Valentine.

The following morning I dress for school: cardigan, ripped jeans, chucks, and tuck Violet's panties in my front pocket. I have taken to carrying them like a talisman. It's fucking weird but I don't give a flying shit. I need new ones though, mine are running dry, they smell more like my cock than her sweet untouched pussy.

Standing in my usual spot, behind the bush, peeping like some voyeur, I wait for Violet to exit her house, to start on her path to school. Tucking a cigarette behind my ear I see her I step out into the light, striding confidently toward the sidewalk running along the front of our houses. "Hey!" I call, rushing to catch up with her.

Violet spins, her black hat nearly slipping from her head, until she reaches up and grabs it, holding on as her hair reflects the golden light of the sun. "Tate," she smiles. An already lit smoke dangles from between two fingers of her right hand. She's wearing a purple flannel shirt, another floral dress, this one shorter and a bit more fitted than the previous, and torn black tights with gray high-top converses. I sink my top teeth into my lower lip.

Shuffling my foot in the dirt, I gaze at her from under my lashes, "Can I walk you to school?"

For one moment she looks nervous, shy, my girl who isn't afraid of anything. "Okay," she nods, and I grin, slipping the burning cigarette from her loose grip, making her squawk. I pass it back as soon as my own stick is burning and take a deep inhale.

We talk about nothing and everything for a couple of blocks; bands we like, how much we fucking hate high school, and then I just ask her: "Are you a virgin?"

She nearly topples over her own feet, stumbling, until I catch her elbow. So, I think, the girl isn't unflappable, and smirk. Glancing over at her I take in her flushed face, wide eyes, and pursed pink lips. Afraid that I've asked too much, too soon, freaked her the fuck out, I attempt to back pedal. "Shit, I'm sorry, Violet, I don't know what…"

"Yes," she blurts, on a rushed exhalation of pent up breath. Then, "Are you?"

Violet isn't looking at me except out of the corner of her eye. The reddish tint to her skin has moved all the way from her cheeks into her hairline and it disappears somewhere in her cleavage, hidden by that dress, with her soft little tits.

Glancing sideways at her I grin, "Yeah." I've fucked around a little, sure, but never met a girl I wanted to work for until her. I wanted to fuck someone I loved. Needed to feel that connection. I needed her to love me before I could fuck her, change everything, just like that, though my dick vehemently protested, demanding to take her now, now, now. But I knew, just knew, it would be all the sweeter for the waiting. And Violet's answering smile was all the reminder I needed.

That afternoon, during lunch, my girl got in a three on one fight with Leah and her gang of slags. Hair pulling, cat scratches, bitch slapping, shoving, groping, it was almost too much for any guy to handle. I don't even know what the fuck she was doing in the cafeteria. I had fully intended to accidentally bump into her then, at the wall, share a cigarette, a coke, maybe try and steal a kiss, but she had no-showed. And I had missed all of the action.

I mean shit, she burned a chick with a still smoldering smoke. That is amazing.

Violet was a fucking firecracker. Set to make my dick explode. There was violence in her. It spoke to me in volumes.

When I see her after school on the walk home, her hat askew, her face scratched up and bruised, blood on her forehead, I can't stop myself. "What happened to your face?" I demand only seconds before grabbing her by the shoulders and crashing my lips against hers. Violet, never having time to reply, goes still, surprised, before melting into my embrace, her lips siding along my own, her mouth opening, her swift little pink tongue sweeping along my teeth, making me groan with need. "Fuck," I breathe, pushing her back, adjusting my destroyed jeans, as she grins, all wide eyes. "I heard Leah looks a lot worse than you do."

"Serves that bitch right," she huffs. "I'm not afraid of them."

"You're not afraid of anything," I say, taking her hand in mine.

"What scares you?" She asks me, eyes on the street ahead of us. I don't answer. Because it's way too fucking early to say something ridiculous like, losing you. So I squeeze her hand and offer a panty-wetting smile.

At Murder House I wonder, "Your dad home?"

"He's always fucking home."

I sigh. Fuck.

"But you know the way around my house, don't you?" My girl is figuring out my little secrets at a rapid, disturbing rate. I shrug, noncommittal, indifferent. Still, she knows I mean yes. "Okay, so meet me in my room in fifteen." And with that she lets go of my hand, jogs across the lawn, and into her house. I grin, bite my lip, and begin counting the seconds before sneaking around the side of the house to the constantly unlatched basement door.

Twenty minutes later I am lounging in the oversized leather arm chair in Violet's bedroom, mere feet from her bed, and she is blasting Nirvana, tugging at the sleeves of her flannel, and I know she is thinking about cutting, about the release. She is pacing the room, anger growing, building, blossoming inside of her, and I love it. It makes me so fucking hard. Her rage.

She rails against the world, "I hate her! I just want to kill her!"

"Then do it," I reply, excited, high on the energy in the room. "One less high school bitch making the lives of the less fortunate intolerable is, in my opinion, a public service." I am master of this moment. "Look, you want her to leave you alone? Stop making your life a living hell? Short of killing her, there is only one solution," I say with all the seriousness I can muster, trying to contain my manic glee. "Scare her," I begin. "Make her afraid of you. It's the only thing bullies react to."

Violet stops moving to fix me with a glare, her eyes steely. "How?" She purses her dusky rose lips.

"It's simple," I shrug, "She's a cokehead. Tell her you're a dealer with the best shit in town and get her here, to the house."

"But I don't have any coke," she tells me, mouth turned down, like that is the problem.

"You won't need any. It's just an excuse to get her here. After that, she'll leave empty handed and terrified." Violet starts up again, all frantic energy and moody teen angst.

Soon she stops, abruptly turning to me, hands on her slim hips, making me wet my lips and grip the chair arms a little harder. "How am I going to terrify her?"

"That's where I come in," I grin. Violet cocks a brow, tilts her head, and studies me. "Helter Skelter."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She demands, standing directly in front of me.

I place my hands on her waist, above her own, and flex my fingertips, feeling the give of her flesh, watching her hazel eyes darken with something akin to need. "I never kid about Helter Skelter, Violet," I reply, before tugging, bringing her down into my lap, her knees spread, resting on other side of my thighs in the oversized chair, mouth pressed to my own.

Within minutes I have our positions reversed; I am between her thighs, pressing her back into the soft downy mattress beneath her. I run my fingertips along her now exposed forearms, skimming over the raised skin of her cuts, her scars, and feeling my hips inadvertently thrust into her center, the cradle of her thighs. She sighs, small mewls escaping from the back of her throat as my hands move to the soft curve of her inner thighs, running up and down over the barely concealed flesh. "Tate," she breaths, pleading, as I drag a knuckle along the seam, just there, right where she's hottest. Wettest. And fuck, is she both of those things. It's like liquid fire where I touch her. And I know I'm not going to fuck her, it's not part of the plan, not this part, not now. But god, I fucking want to.

My next session with Doctor Harmon begins strained and only degrades from there. Dipshit. Glaring at me like I deflowered his daughter. I was the one who fucking said no, who stilled her hot little hands from yanking my cock out of my jeans. Not that he even knows I was here. Self-absorbed fucking narcissist.

And he doesn't think that I could possibly deserve Violet or her love. All he sees in front him is some psychopath who dreams of blood and piss and shit and murder and fucking. And so maybe she is too good for me but that's for Violet to decide, not some cocky asshole psychiatrist, who doesn't really give a shit about his family. Hypocrite.

So I glare at him, watching him, listening to their phone ring again and again before abruptly going silent.

When sex comes up, because in a way I was the one who brought it up, bored and tired of these sessions already, and antsy to get up to Violet's room after we are through, Ben just can't help himself with the questions.

"Do you think about sex a lot?"

"I think about one girl in particular." I pause for effect, "You're daughter," then smile. "I jerk off thinking about her. A lot." I don't mention the part about the stolen underwear but I think about the two freshly worn pairs I have in my possession, one in my cardigan pocket as I sit there in that office. The other in my backpack. But big fucking Ben isn't comfortable. I think about strangling him, watching the life choke out of his body, lips turning blue, eyes bulging from their sockets. I lean in, enjoying myself immensely, "Don't you want to know what I do to her? How I lay her down on the bed…" and then I'm picturing it, Violet spread out before me as she was the other night, willing, offering, pliant under my touch. And fuck, I need it again.

"Do you turn to these thoughts to comfort yourself? In times of stress?"

And that kind of catches me off guard, makes me think. Ben has a point. "Actually, yes. I jerk off a lot to make the visions go away." I don't mention that my newest remedy is having my hands, my greedy lips, all over his baby girl. That she is the thing I lose myself in. I like watching the doctor squirm but I don't actually want him analyzing what I have with Violet. It's none of his goddamned business. I continue, "The blood and the carnage," I swallow, serious, "I want the thoughts to go away and you're not helping me". For all that your daughter is. But being there, with him, it makes me angry, hateful, and I want out. If he finishes with me, maybe Constance will just forget it, drop the whole fucking thing, and let our lives get back to normal. Whatever that is.

Ben argues that we've only had a few sessions and all I want is for him to shut the fuck up. So I drop a bomb, "Violet told me about the affair with the girl in Boston." She had been so fucking disgusted, spitting vitriol and making me hard with her barely contained fury. She had even smashed a picture of the family, glass shards flying, before sweeping her palms along the glass, leaving blood in her wake, tears on her cheeks.

Ben didn't love, couldn't love. He didn't know how. He was weak.

"Not much older than her, she said."

"Our time is up," he tells me, tone flat, the hardness in his eyes belying the calm exterior and relaxed posture.

"Bullshit. I don't accept that."

"Our time is up for today, Tate."

I lean back, a smirk threatening to break through, as I gaze dispassionately back at my doctor, before I grab my satchel and leave the room without another word, slamming the door behind me as the phone rings for the fifth time that hour.

Glancing over my shoulder I see that the good doctor has stayed right where he was and I give up pretenses, walking directly to the old solid staircase. She is listening to The Cure. Robert Smith's melodic, sorrowful voice filters down to my ears and I grin, already anticipating my lovely little girl, in one of her floral dresses sprawled out across her bed, purring like a little kitten under my hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2/4

She is wearing a coonskin cap, the little tail dipping down into the sheet of her hair. A pack of Camels sit, cast aside, on the low brick wall beside her, a can of coke just beyond but within reach of her small white hands. I think about scaring her as I approach; imagine my hand clasped over her mouth, the other wrapping around her waist, dragging her up and along my body, and bite my lip.

The field in front of us is all but abandoned. I want to kiss her so badly it hurts, a physical pain in my chest, pulling me forward, toward her. In the end I sneak up behind her, quiet as I can be, and put my hands over her eyes. For one moment Violet sputters, gasps in surprise, then her hands are covering my own, gripping them, "Screw you, Tate," drops sarcastically from her lips.

"I scared you."

"No, you didn't," she turns as my hands fall back to my sides. Her still too wide eyes give her away though.

I pout so prettily at her, "Really? I didn't scare you?"

"I said no." She shakes her head. That hat is utterly ridiculous. And I fucking love it. I flick the tail, watch it sway.

Dropping down beside her on the wall, her smokes and drink between us, I lean in, pause, wait for her to do the same, and when she does, press my lips to her soft, full mouth. "Bet I can," I breathe.

"Asshole," she laughs with a huff, pushing me away. Her hot little hand lingers on my chest, resting against my rapidly beating heart. I shrug.

She waits, nibbling on her mouth, as my fingers slide over hers, slip between them, clasping her hand. Finally she looks at me again. "Leah's coming over after school." And I grin maniacally. Then I kiss her again, a fleeting, warm touch and rest my forehead against hers.

"I'll skip last period."

Violet chuckles, "Tate, you skip, like, every period."

I smirk, still so close to her, "Bring her to the basement. I'll be there."

Her face is momentarily fucking nervous, teeth still working that lip. "You're not going to hurt her or anything are you?"

"Do you want me to?" Because I would really fucking like to. Put my hands around her throat, choke her, lift her up by her neck, and smash her skull into the hard concrete. Watch her eyes glaze over, the blood pooling around her head.

She doesn't respond, not really, my girl, just lifts one shoulder helplessly.

"Because," I whisper, "I would for you." My eyes bore into hers, hoping to convey how absolutely fucking serious I am. "I would do anything for you, Violet." And her breath catches so beautifully. She's not smiling but I feel her cool hand on the back of my neck as she tugs me into her, our mouths colliding with the slide of lips and tongue. It becomes something more, the kiss, passionate and hot, our teeth gnashing together, my palms gliding up her waist to her narrow ribcage, where I squeeze, clutch her in desperation.

At Murder House I let myself in, noting that the good doctor and his wife both appear to be away from home, and grin. The basement is dimly lit on the best of days and with the sun low in the sky the place is cast in near darkness. The room I want to use is windowless anyway but it sets the tone. I love that shit.

The monster is around somewhere and I am quite certain that Leah's arrival will fucking bring him out, crawling, slithering into view. He's always hungry.

Once I'm situated in the chair I've chosen, facing the doorway, I wait. My mind drifts to thoughts of Violet: her lips, her small breasts in my hands only feet away from our classmates, the sweet little noises she makes. Not being with her, fucking her, is getting harder to take. The voices, all of them, call for her, beg for her, want her. And I feel more and more helpless to deny them. Her little pink cunt, it's all I can think about. I want to put my mouth on it. I've never licked a girl's slit, fuck, I've never actually seen one up close and personal. And I only want to see hers. Always and forever. Palming my dick through my worn jeans I hiss, "Fuck."

And then I hear them. Two voices, both girls, and one most definitely the honeyed tones of my Violet. I grit my teeth and take my hand off of my cock, rocking back and forth in excitement, in preparation.

"This place is a dump," Leah sneers and I bite my lip until I taste copper, trying to stay in control. I can not kill her no matter how much I would like to.

Violet snarks back, "Oh, shut up."

"I want my goddamn drugs."

"Then keep going."

The girls stumble in in the dark as Violet flicks the light switch bathing us with the age old fluorescents. "So this is the coke whore." I fucking know who she is but I somehow doubt she has ever taken notice of me. Leah's surprised, confused, instantly on edge. I can fucking smell her fear. It's intoxicating.

"Who the hell are you?" The cocksucking bitch starts, taking the offensive.

"Get the lights," I tell Violet who smirks and does just as I've fucking asked.

Immediately the room goes in and out of darkness as I let myself really feel the moment, laughing hysterically, insanely. And he's there, I feel him, behind me. It doesn't take much to lift the little fucker and sit him in the chair, he claws and snarls, as I dive away, right at Leah, knocking her to the ground.

I intend to get up, let Thaddeus have his fun and then show the cunt the way out. But I can't stop myself from reaching down, putting my hands around her throat and squeezing. Not enough, the voices hiss, hold tighter. And she's screaming beneath me even as Violet begins screaming behind me. And then he's on her, mouth gaping, teeth flashing in the flickering light.

Grabbing hold of Violet around the waist I feel her momentarily relax back into me with a sigh of relief before struggling, moving forward, "What's going on?" she yells.

"Get off me! Get off me! Stop!" The girl on the floor struggles as I smile, keeping my girl with me, safe. But she worms her way loose, hitting the floor with her knees and palms, a soft exhalation of pain. And that has Thaddeus turning, scrambling toward the fresh meat. I immediately kick the little shit, knocking him away from Violet and back toward his intended target. It's only seconds before he goes for Leah's throat but I get hold of him by that fucking ugly old lace collar. He scratches her face good, deep, and blood blooms from the cuts, as the screams continue. "Mommy?"

When I hit the lights, the monster is gone, and Leah leaps up, running without looking back. Violet's face is a frozen mask of horror. She is shaken from her stupor by the sound of feet hitting the steps, "Wait!" she calls after the fleeing girl.

"I don't think she'll be bothering you anymore," I smirk, pleased with myself.

"What the fuck was that?" she spins, hands clenched into fists. Instead of appearing grateful, throwing her arms around me, kissing me, touching me, she is beside herself, near hysterical, lips turned down into a wobbling frown. "What did you fucking do, you psycho?" And that hurts. Like a knife in the chest, cutting my heart out. People might think that about me, whisper it behind my back, but not Violet. Not the one person in the world who could truly love me.

"I just did what you asked," I shout, voice broken. Her face is pink, eyes shining with tears.

"No, Tate," she croaks, "that is not what I wanted!" A gasp, "What was that?"

"What are you talking about?" I ask, knowing that she saw him, it. The house has secrets, too many, ones that she is not ready to know about. I smirk, lie through my fucking teeth, and I feel like a piece of shit. Doing it to her. "She hit me in the balls and got away. She must have run into a wall or something."

Violet glances with terrified eyes into the basement room that we just vacated. "A wall, Tate? She fucking pissed herself," and I can't stop the spread of my smile, feeling accomplished. My girl, however, is having none of it, fury in her eyes, overtaking the fear. "I saw something."

"What are you talking about?" I repeat, rolling my eyes, gaslighting her like a prick. "You're talking crazy, Vi." My hand reaches out, grabs ahold of her crooked elbow, pulling her toward me. "This is cool. We showed that bitch!" I want to kiss her, need to, greedy for it. My cock is rock hard, that cunt's screams still ringing in my ears, making me feel high.

But Violet pushes me away, shoves me. She has never refused my lips, not once. "Fuck you," she shrieks. "You're fucking lying to me!"

My eyes roll around in their sockets, lost, boggling at her anger, my mouth hanging open like some moron. I can't even get a fucking word out. I'm stunned, hurt, bile rising up my throat. I did all of it for her. To protect her.

Finally I manage a choked, "Violet," but her face is closed off to me. Her palms hit my chest again shoving me roughly into the wall. Her strength shouldn't surprise me but it does and I stay there, feeling like I am about to be sick.

"Fuck you, Tate," she declares a second time, eyes narrowing. "Just get the fuck out of my house."

"But," I stammer.

"Get out!" Her voice echoes around the room and I'm thankful that her parents are gone. With that she storms up the stairs leaving me where I'm standing.

"I thought you weren't afraid of anything," I mutter darkly, the pain in my chest seizing control. I am murderous. Rage claws at my ribs like a monster begging to be released. I would never hurt her, fucking never, but I want to. To crush her to me, hold her, kiss her, force her down on the floor and make her beg. For her life, for me to fuck her. I scream at her retreating form, "I thought you weren't afraid of anything!" And turn, punching my fist into the concrete, my knuckles busting open, bones shuddering from the impact, before I whirl around in a daze and run for the basement door.

Slamming into my house, bleeding hand at my side, hair in my face, tears on cheeks, I storm upstairs to my bedroom. I can not get the top drawer of my nightstand open fast enough. As I stare down at the orange prescription bottles wavering between going up or crashing down, I finally opt for the valiums. I toss three in my mouth, swallow them dry.

"Fucking bitch." My voice is hollow. Wretched. And I could mean Violet, could blame her, but it was Leah. That shit eating cunt. If she had just left my girl alone, right from the beginning, none of this would be happening. For a few moment I entertain the thought of leaving, of finding her house, going into her room and stabbing her. Just hammering a knife into her chest, her fucking stomach, listening to that bitch cry and moan some more. But I don't. My head is spinning, either from the pills already taking effect or from Violet. Lack of Violet. And fear. Fear that she will never see me, never speak to me again.

As I face the darkness of my mind, the blackness behind my eyes, I determine not to let that happen. Tomorrow, I will talk to her tomorrow, make her understand. And fuck, if she's serious, I'll tell her what's in the basement. If that's what she wants. But I don't think it is. And I don't want her fucking spooked, freaking out, tell her parents. That's when people, like doctor daddy Ben, start thinking you're losing your shit. They could send her away and I would have lost my chance. Lost my everything. My salvation. Violet, already, is the only thing I have in the world worth hanging on for, living for.

And then I'm gone, adrift on a sea, and my dreams are filled with blood. And Violet.

When I wake it's the middle of the night and I'm groggy, woozy. My head hurts but the pain there is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I think of Violet immediately, as I always do when I'm first opening my eyes, or closing them, or gasping as I cum, or any other fucking time of the day. And I can't stand the thought that she is in her room, my room, our room, sleeping or tossing and turning, angry with me.

I should close my eyes and go back to sleep, but I have never been one to do what I should do. I do what I need to do. And I need to speak to my girl. Now. Right that fucking second.

Letting myself in through the basement door I cringe, remembering what happened there only hours before. I try not to think about it. I still feel sick.

I take the stairs slowly, listening, waiting to make sure that the coast is clear before I venture up to the first floor. I do the same climbing up to Violet's room. The door is cracked, a small desk lamp aglow, and it feels like an invitation. Like she knew I would come.

Violet is tiny, small boned and beautiful, when awake. Asleep she is even smaller, more fragile, and I sigh when I look at her. Her features are twisted, face scrunched up, as her hand grasps the blankets. Her lips are puffy, as are her eyes, and I know she has felt it, the pain, the fear, just a keenly. I want to throw myself on my knees, at her mercy, but I stay standing at the foot of her bed, watching her, biting my lip, hands jammed deep in my pockets.

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat calling out to her, driving me forward, toward her, the bed. And I'm terrified. Afraid she'll deny my love, reject me, push me away again. "Fuck," I mumble, biting down on my wrist, not wanting to fucking cry any more. I don't want her to think I'm some pussy who can't keep his shit together.

And either she wasn't really asleep or she is just that attuned to me, she stirs under her myriad of blankets, "Tate?" she hushes into the room, eyes still closed.

"Yeah," I respond, stepping closer.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice barely audible.

I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, making the floorboards creak, trying to find the right words. But before I can she moves over, lifting the covers as an invitation. One I could not possibly refuse. I inch as close to her as I can, drawing her to me, holding her hot little body against my own. "Don't be mad at me," I whisper in her ear, lips touching the delicate shell. "Please, Violet, don't be mad." A sob nearly escapes my burning throat.

"Tate," she sighs breathily making my cock instantly hard, knowing she must feel it pressed right up against her.

"I'm sorry," I say it into her neck, trailing my mouth over her warm skin.

"Me too," she breathes, turning her head to grant me better access.

"And if you want to know what's in the basement, I'll tell you, I'll show you," I implore. She cuts me off with her lips, ending my stammering pledge.

I roll us, slipping between her parted thighs. She's only wearing a pair of cotton panties with her oversized thermal and as I feel the heat of her, right there, I gasp, groan, into her open mouth, resting in the place I so desperately need to be: against her quivering pussy and in her good graces. I rock against her, make her moan, little shivers running through her. And fuck, it's good. I've never felt so amazing. Her hands move from my neck, sweeping over my back as the muscles there shift and pull, and around my sides. I almost blow my load in my fucking pants when she palms me, rubbing, teasing.

"Violet," I whimper.

She lets out a ragged breath, "I want to."

And I can barely control myself, wanting to rip her fucking panties away, tear down my zipper, and ram into her wet hole. Make her mouth fall open in surprise. But I don't, instead I renew my rutting, trapping her hand where it is between us. Staring down at her face, eyes closed, lip caught painfully between her teeth, I beg, "Cum for me," as she tosses her head back and forth across the pillow, muffled little whines escaping her. "I want to see you cum." And fuck if she doesn't, right then and there, crying out into my seeking mouth. With a few more thrusts I find my own release, freezing above her, breathing furiously, frantically through my nose, so as not to cry out, to wake the whole house, the whole fucking neighborhood.

"Did you?" she queries a couple of moments later, wide eyes searching my face.

I breathe, "Oh, yeah."

"In your," she appears as if she wants to gesture but instead closes her hand still on my dick, grasping. I groan as the base of my spine tingles, feeling renewed interest, but I'm too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to put any real effort into it. "Shit," she huffs, "sorry." I kiss her lips, slowly, softly. When I pull away she gazes back at me, puzzled. "But I said," she blushes furiously, "I wanted. You could have…"

"Fucked you," I whisper.

Violet closes her eyes, "Yeah."

I kiss each eyelid, "Violet," but they remained closed. I plead, "Look at me." When she does embarrassment, disappointment, are written plainly across her features. "I swear, I want to be with you so badly. And that's never happened to me. It's just," I pause, trying to find the right fucking words, "not like this. With your parents down the hall and trying not to make a sound cause the whole fucking house is asleep." I breathe, "I want it to be special." And then it is my turn to close my eyes in embarrassment. I sound like such a douche bag. And she's going to laugh at me for being pathetic. Because I am pathetic. And hopelessly, endlessly in love with her.

She sighs but it sounds amused. I peek at her through lowered lashes and she is grinning. "Of course, I find the last noble boy in LA."

Her comment takes me back to that first meeting with her father, fucking Dr. Ben, and my noble war. It just reinforces my notion that Violet is the only person who truly understands me, who I am, how I feel. She knows me. And she still wants me to take her virginity. Wants me to hold her hand. Wants me to love her, be with her.

I can not speak so finally she shakes her head, laughing quietly, and rolls me off of her and onto the mattress beside her, tucking herself into my side. My hands slip under her shirt, resting on her bare back while hers go to slip through my hair, brushing my scalp. It's my turn to purr like a kitten.

"Good night, Tate," she breathes, already on the edge of sleep.

"Good night, Violet," I whisper back still staring at her in awe. And for probably the first time in my life I fall asleep feeling truly loved.

As dawn approaches, the room lightening, she shifts, snuggles against me, moving furthering into my chest, her hands fisted in my shirt. With a sigh I tell her honestly, "I need to go," but everything in me pleads, begs, bargains with me, to stay where I am. "Your parents will be up soon," she moans softly in disagreement, not releasing me. "Vi, please, your dad can't fine me here. He'll stop seeing me." And I want to get better, to make the visions stop. I know that now. If not for me, then for her.

"Fuck my dad," she grumbles, tongue darting out to taste the exposed flesh between my neck and shoulder. "And besides, he always sleeps in on Saturday."

"Fuck your dad, huh?" I smirk. "He's not really the Harmon on the top of my list."

"Oh," she bats her lashes at me coquettishly, "and who is?" Violet, is once again fearless, last nights embarrassed blushing girl back to the coy, teasing temptress. I decide I like both versions of her.

"Your mom," I smirk.

Violet hauls back and smacks me, nearly knocking me out of the bed, but she's laughing. "Better not."

"I wouldn't," I tell her, dragging her to me so that she's flush against my body once more. "It's you and me, Vi. Always."

By the time I get out of my girl's room I am hard as a steel post again. I stumble home, blissed out, and slip inside, up the stairs, and into the shower before anyone is the wiser at my being gone all night. Constance would have a fucking shit-fit if she knew. And if I had to listen to her talk about where I was, about Violet, I wouldn't be able to contain my rage. Because knowing the southern belle, she would have nothing polite to say about a girl who let a boy share her bed, which would force me to throttle her to death. And then who would be left to pretend to care for Addie and Beau?

"Fuck," I groan, hand around my cock, forehead pressed to the cool tile wall as water cascades over me as I try to find some relief.

When I'm clean, dressed, and mostly fucking limp again I listen to In Utero on repeat for over two hours sequestered in my room, watching the house next door from my window, waiting to catch a glimpse of Violet. By ten o'clock when I still haven't seen her but Ben, in his jogging clothes, and her mother, in stretch pants and leotard, have disappeared to their respective morning destinations I flee back to Murder House, easing open the kitchen door, and making my way upstairs.

Violet is like a drug. I need her. I crave her.

I am near to shaking by the time I find her, so desperate to have her back in my arms, my lips on her throat. Peering around the bathroom door, I see her, razor slicing along the delicate veins of her wrist, opening the white flesh there and painting it blood red. The blood, the color, the consistency, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning.

When she pulls the blade away from her skin and I feel comfortable approaching, knowing that I won't fucking scare her into accidentally killing herself, I push the door wide, leaning against the frame, the picture of casual aside from my ragging hard-on.

"Tate," she jumps, attempting to hide.

"Don't," I sigh, sounding desperate to my own ears.

Her hazel eyes are huge, lips pink, hair hanging in her face, "You do it," she replies defensively.

I shake my head. She doesn't understand my meaning. "No. I mean don't hide," my teeth worry my lower lip as my heart pounds, "I want to watch." It's sick. Fucking twisted. And I am certain she is going to shove me out of her way and storm from the bathroom.

But she doesn't. Instead the blade reappears, sliding smoothly across her flesh, a second line opening beside the first, her eyes on mine. And it's all too much. My body's reaction is visceral, uncontrollable. Without thought or reason I'm lifting her, depositing her ass on the counter, ducking down to kiss her lips. Her arms lift, moving to wrap around my neck and it's so much like my fantasy I have to stop and catch my breath, suddenly afraid it all isn't real.

Reaching for her, I halt her movements, and bring her bloodied wrist to my mouth, dragging the flat of my tongue along the stripes of red, letting the flavor of her, of Violet's blood, hang heavy on my taste buds.

"Tate," she stutters, staring down at me from her perch on the vanity.

Sensing her hesitancy I glance up at her, smirking. "I could lick you somewhere else," I murmur, "if you want," and her skin scorches scarlet but she nods.

And that's how I find myself tugging Violet's gray tights down her legs, black panties following behind, and tossing them across the room. She's not wearing one of her dresses today, just an oversized, deep green sweater than falls to mid-thigh, as it hangs off of one shoulder revealing her utter lack of bra. I drop to my knees, pushing the material up around her waist and slowly, carefully, nudge her legs apart to get my first look at that glorious little wet slit.

Fuck, it's perfect. Pink and shiny, dripping. Begging me to taste it. But suddenly I'm nervous. Violet's a virgin but who's to say that I'm the first to spread her dimpled knees. And what if I'm awful at it? What if she doesn't fucking cum I'm so bad? "I," I start, staring up into her half-lidded gaze, her mouth open to form a innocently seductive 'O', "haven't, you know, before, so if I'm…"

"You're the first boy to ever see me," she rushes out, "to touch me," then swallows thickly before licking her lips with what I think is anticipation.

Her response makes me bold so with one last grin I lean in, sweep the very tip of my tongue along her seam. My girl is fucking soaking. She releases a shaking little sigh and puts her hand on my head, fingers weaving into my hair. Encouraged I try again, using more of my tongue, pushing her open, and finally tasting her.

"Oh god," I stammer, "it's even fucking better than your blood, Violet." And her head falls back, knocking into the mirror with a groan.

"Please, please," she repeats over and over again as I work her, laving every inch I can reach both inside and out. Her bare pussy smearing my face with her juice. One hand slips from its place on her thigh and drops to rub my dick through my pants.

It's sloppy and messy and amazing. And I fucking love it. It's my new fucking favorite thing. Eating Violet's little pink pussy. I never want to stop but eventually I have to. After she cums for a second time her palms push at me, her legs quaking, "Too much," she mumbles, hair in her face, cheeks wet, eyes bright. And I can't stop grinning at her, my face splitting.

I don't shower afterward, I refuse, I won't even wash my face, no matter how many times Violet tells me, laughing, rolling her eyes, pulling on my cigarette, "You're so fucking gross." And I swear, for days, that I can smell her on me.

At my next appointment with big fucking Ben it's there, wafting past my nostrils, making me grin for no reason, which makes the doc really fucking squirm. He doesn't trust me but he hasn't called the cops, reported me for my dreams, fantasies. Maybe the dick actually thinks I can get better. Or, I chuckle, he needs the fucking money. As my cocksucking mother continues to point out, he doesn't have very many patients.

"I am afraid I won't be able to see you next week, Tate."

And my heart hammers. What does he know? "Why?" I demand, mouth pulling downward, eyes narrowing.

"I'll be in Boston for the week, visiting with old patients and wrapping up a few details out there." I stare. Read: I'm seeing my fucking mistress who still lives there. He doesn't even have the decency to look guilty, just smug. Like he's looking forward to slipping back into that 21 year old cunt's pussy. I hope he dies inside of her, a fucking stroke, a heart attack. But that's probably too good, too easy of an end for Ben Harmon. I could come up with so many more interesting ways for him to go. Hung up by his toes, throat slit like the swine that he is. On fire, doused in gasoline, just like dear old fucking Larry.

I nod lazily, "So, the next Tuesday then?"

"You bet. And," he smiles, all teeth and bullshit, "keep taking your meds. You do not want to see what happens if you stop."

"Yeah, yeah," I wave him off, standing, "we through for today?" His reply is a curt bob of his head and I slip out of the room, shoulders hunched, dragging my feet. "I'll show myself out," and he waves me off. Fucking prick. Either he honestly believes that Violet never spoke to me again after he told her not to or he has given up caring. What a dick-bag. I can not fucking wait to be rid of that asshole for a whole week. Not having to deal with his shit, with sneaking around with my girl. I can't wait to experience life without Ben. I'm dying to know just how sweet it will be.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N - Tate's mix tape* available (via link) at the bottom of the page. I hope you like it! Thanks so much for the reviews and follows. The final part is complete and will be up in the next few days.

Disclaimer - American Horror Story is not mine. Only this small work of fiction is.

* * *

Part 3/4

When Dr. Ben returns home from his jaunt in fucking Boston, the wife has already packed his belongings up and stacked them haphazardly on the front porch. That night I am, as always, in Violet's room, lying side by side on her bed, hands tangled together between us, listening to music and talking about nothing and everything.

We're braced for the explosion when it comes; front door slamming open, hinges creaking. Violet still tenses, grips my hand tighter. "He's pissed," she says without feeling.

I shrug, "Your dad is a douche bag."

"I know," she replies, voice tired.

"How'd your mom figure it out anyway?"

"She found the phone bill, looked at all the long distance calls to and from Boston. All to the same number. And called it. Hayden answered."

"That's fucking awful."

"And then she puts it all together. The phone calls, the sudden trip to Boston. Fuck, I mean, what did she think? You knew. I fucking knew. She's so weak," she sighs. "I hate her almost as much for that reason."

"If you love someone, you should never hurt them. Never." I tell her, rolling over to gaze into her big hazel eyes.

"Right, I know," she agrees, touching my face. But before I can even lean in, put my lips to hers, the goddamn screaming starts, quickly followed by the shattering of glass, ceramics.

Violet just sits up, crawls down the bed and turns the stereo up. A mix tape I had made her a couple of days earlier drowning out the sounds below.

She loved the tape, the gesture, listened to it on repeat. I had filled the tape with songs that spoke to me. About her. Songs filled with anger and love, frustration and devotion. _Love Song_ by The Cure, _Violet _by Hole, _Heart Shaped Box_ by Nirvana, _Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want_ by The Smiths. Song after song. I could make a million mix tapes expressing my feelings, my unending love for her.

I recorded every song, ordered them meticulously, wrote each down on the insert slowly, using my very best penmanship, then titled it "Mix for my violent Violet," and had even drawn a small heart next to her name.

She thanked me by dropping to her knees beside her bed and slowly unbuckling my belt.

"Violet?" I asked, surprised, excited. My fucking dick was hard instantly. I'd never been blown before.

"I want to see it," she smirked up at me and I merely nodded in return. Once she got my cock out her eyes drifted from tip to base, studying me as I bit my lip. And then, without warning, I was in her mouth, knocking against the back of her throat. Violet gagged.

I wanted to push her away, tell her she didn't have to, but I couldn't, my mouth just hung open. The feel of her tongue, the warm wet of her mouth, making me stupid, mute.

Violet started over, getting more of a feel for it, and I could barely hold my shit together, desperately trying not to make a fool of myself. "Oh, fuck," I groaned immediately before blowing my load in her mouth, catching her unaware, and my guilt doubled. "Shit, Violet. I'm sorry," I covered my eyes, fucking embarrassed, afraid she would never be willing to do it again.

She pulled back, off my cock, with a wet slurping sound, coughed, then grinned. "It actually wasn't that bad," she told me, big innocent eyes staring up at me. "It's kind of salty," she shrugged. "I thought it would be gross. Like cottage cheese or yogurt when it's gone bad."

I barked a laugh, removing my hand, gazing down at her, "Why would it taste like that?"

And she started giggling too. "I don't know! Just the shit girls say about it."

And now, just thinking about Violet's hot little tongue running down the length of me has me hard, shifting. I sit up and face her, trying to adjust my fucking dick, think about anything but my girl, her mouth, her hot little cunt.

The shouting has stopped below and there's a sudden knock on the door. "Fuck!" Violet mouths, "Hide!" she points below us, to under the bed. The door's locked so she calls out, "Hold on! I'm changing," rolling her eyes at me. I lean in for a kiss, her lips loose and wet under mine, lazily following my mouth, moving with me when I try to pull back.

With a grin I drop to the floor and slide under the bed. I can see through the small iron bars if I squint, but only big fucking Ben's legs are visible, as he enters, walking behind Violet.

"Honey, I'm going to stay in a hotel for a few days. Your mom is upset and I think she needs some time to collect herself, to calm down."

"Okay," she replies, bored.

"I'll be back here to see my patients so anything you want to talk about, you just let me know, okay?"

No response so I assume she nods.

"Take care of your mom for me."

"I will."

"And Violet, remember what I said about Tate," that catches my attention, "he may seem like a nice boy, a regular boy, to you, but he's dangerous. So stay away from him. Just ignore him if he tries to talk to you. And don't let him in if I'm not here. He shouldn't be here. He knows that."

I can hear the fucking smirk in her voice, "Yeah. Okay, Dad," and she ushers him out as quickly as possible. "Thanks. And, uh, good luck with the hotel and shit," and then she slams the door.

Counting to ten I wait there, in the dark, surrounded by dust bunnies and an abandoned sock. "Fuck, he's such a fucking dick. Tate, you can come out," she pauses, "I locked the door."

As I emerge, getting up onto my hands and knees, I crawl over to her, tug her ankle, toppling her, and bringing her down onto the floor with me. She laughs, puts on a show of struggling. "What are you doing, weirdo?"

In reply I shift so that I'm on top of her, thrust my needy erection into her easily parted thighs, "I'm showing you just how dangerous I am," and smirk down at her smiling face.

"Oh, really," she tilts her face up, lips tickling my neck, tongue darting out to taste the flesh there. "I think it's time I find out exactly how dangerous that is." Her hands are on my back, at the hem of my t-shirt, yanking it up and over my head. Curls spill out onto my forehead and she sighs, arching her back, grinding against my dick. She isn't afraid of anything, my Violet.

I hiss as my fingers find their way under her dress, over her tights, and into her panties, "You're soaking." She nods, biting her lip, staring up at me as she rides my fingers, silently begging for more.

With a moan and a shimmy I am nearly undone, rucking her dress up. Violet shifts, pulls it over her head as I tear at the next barrier, blue tights, leaving her in only a pair of white cotton panties. Small nibble fingers pop the button on my pants, shoving at the waistband.

"You're a greedy little girl, aren't you?" I say, dropping down to claim her lips once more, as her hands and then her feet work at getting my jeans down and around my ankles. I kick them off from there, chew the inside of my cheek, then jerk her panties down to her ankles, she does the rest. I've seen her pussy before, plump and bare, but never so much of her, naked, at one time. I want to stare, memorize the sight. It's gorgeous.

"Tate," she whines.

"This probably isn't the right time to tell you," I breathe, "but I'm fucking in love with you, Violet."

Something catches in her throat, a small sigh, a sob, before she kisses me. "I love you too," she says against my mouth, tongue slipping along my lip. "Oh, god, Tate. I really do." And she says it with such sincerity, such conviction that I think I'm going to die, stop breathing, keel over, have a heart attack, a stroke. But I don't, instead I grab hold of my cock, run it along her soaking slit, and sink into her without a further thought.

I worry for a moment that I've been too rough, too sudden, too forceful. Violet makes a mewling noise, gasps, bucks upward, while holding me in place, whispering, "Don't move." Her warm hands on my lower back, hot breath on my neck, thighs encasing me, I sweat, struggling to obey, not wanting to hurt her. "It's just, fuck," she groans, "so big, so much. I feel so fucking full." My cock twitches, it's unintentional but her words hit me right in the dick, and her little pink cunt is so hot, tight, wet, mind blowing and new, and nothing like my hand, her hand, her mouth. It's so much better. And I never want to leave. But I want to move. I really fucking want to move.

"Okay," she sighs, shifting, sliding down a fraction, knees knocking against my hips, my ribs.

I last a dozen pumps. "Fuck, Violet, I'm going to…"

"I'm not on, we didn't, you need to," she can't complete a sentence, a thought, but I understand the gist.

Violet whimpers as I withdraw, cum in a splash on her stomach, painting her already pale skin white. Her mouth falls open into a cute little 'O' as she looks down at the mess I've made of her.

I'm spent, excited, and as I pull back I see blood on my dick, a bit on the lips of her cunt and I'm reminded that no matter how fucking good it felt for me, it fucking hurt her, the only thing I love. So I drop down and use my tongue to clean the blood from her pussy, sucking on her clit until she's undulating under my mouth, and coming undone all around me, my tongue, as deep inside of her as I can get it, soothing the ache of my dick away.

"Did it hurt?" I ask later, curled around her on the rug, the comforter dragged down from the bed around us, as I play with the delicate fingers of her hand. I'm certain it did, but I have to hear it from her lips, what I did to her. "They say, the first time usually does," I frown, remembering the blood, my cock twitching at the thought of it.

"No," she shakes her head, "it didn't hurt." A pause, "It was intense."

"For me too," I tell her, moving her hair aside, kissing the vertebra running up the back of her neck.

"You really are here, aren't you?" she hushes, voice soft and a little lost. "I didn't just imagine you? That you're here. With me." It's such an un-Violet thing to say, my brash confident fighter.

"Of course. I'll always be here." I tell her, eyes closed, "If that's what you want." She doesn't say anything, just pulls my arm over and around her middle, cuddling further into my body. And I know exactly how she feels.

* * *

My next session with Dr. Harmon is fucking awkward and I can't help smirking at the bastard as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. I know that he has been kicked out of the house. But neither of us mention it. He knows that I am still hanging around his daughter even against his expressed wishes. But neither of us mention that either.

After what feels like a lifetime, sitting there staring at one another, talking in circles, out of no where, the douche bag starts fucking crying, right in the middle of my hour. I mean, he is blubbering. Like a bitch. Like I'm the goddamn shrink and he's the patient having a breakthrough.

"Violet," he says, dropping his head into his hands, "my fierce little girl, so much like her mom, smart and beautiful, no need to be like anyone else. What's happened to her? What have I done?" And looks up, stares at me with glassy eyes as I gaze back impassively. Violet is still fierce, he just can't see it anymore. He's too tainted by his own sins to be able to look upon her and truly know her, know her like I do. Passionately. Intimately.

Fuck, I'm thinking about her pussy. Again. Actually, it's all I have been able think about since being inside of it. It was like sticking my dick in a vice made out of molten heat. That sweet little hole was made just for me. I run a hand through my already tousled hair. I'm getting a massive hard-on just imagining it.

But the fucking dick across from me just won't shut up. "I was a troubled kid too. I was kind of like you, Tate. I didn't hold out too much hope for myself. Not many other people did either. It was a total shock to everyone, including myself, when I became a doctor." Tears roll down his cheeks, "And somehow I was given this amazing gift of family." Cocking my head, studying him, I watch as he attempts to wipe the wetness from his cheeks, "I'm sorry," he mumbles, more to himself than to me I realize.

"Hey," I grin as he glances back up at me, "it's good to talk about it. Get it out there."

He nods, a corner of his mouth lifting. "Thanks, Tate."

"I mean, how else are you going to accept the fact that you are a narcissistic prick who just can't keep his dick in his pants around pretty young girls?"

"Excuse me?" his voice rises an octave along with his dark brows.

"You threw the people you love in the gutter, Ben. You made them feel like trash. And, at least in your daughter's case, I was there to pick up the pieces. Now, your wife," I trail off as his hands curl into fists, rage smeared across his too handsome face.

"I told you to stay away from Violet."

"You did," I shrug, "but I didn't listen." With that I am up and off the leather sofa, striding across the room. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be, and I believe you have another patient coming in."

I breezed through the door. Moira is standing there with her feather duster and one silvery eye. "He's all yours," I wink and her lips lift in an approximation of a smile, slipping through the narrow crack and closing it behind her.

* * *

Violet is waiting for me in the basement, back against the cold stone wall nearest the steps, eyes ever watchful, arms locked across her chest, pose aggressive. Her hair is loosely braided down her back, over sized brown sweater over black leggings, feet bare. Painfully beautiful as she pouts.

"Why are we hanging out in this dark, dank place? You know I fucking hate it down here."

"But," I hold the Ouija board up in front of me, "we're going to play a game." I smirk, "And we need the right," I wave my arm around the space, "atmosphere."

"I don't believe in this shit," she huffs, all bravado. All Violet.

"Charles is going to answer all your questions," I sing-song, lighting the red candles kept on a shelf down here and placing them beside the board.

"Who's Charles?" she asks me, feigning disinterest.

"He used to live here."

"Fuck, when?"

I shrug, "I don't know. The 20's, I think." Sitting across from me with a sigh I can't stop staring at her full, berry stained, lips. "You have to put your fingers on the other side," I tell her, reaching out to do the same. She finally does so with a simpering look, humoring me.

Then a real smile blooms, lighting her face, and making me nervous. "What's in this basement?" she demands, gaze locking on mine, "I want the truth."

And I'm going to tell her the fucking truth. She needs to know. It's time for her to know what lives in her house with her. To know what I know. So that she can fully understand Murder House, feel at home within it's bones and beams.

"What I'm about to tell you might scare you," I take her hands in mine, hold them over the board, and she sucks in a deep breath, ready.

"I can take it," she states when I don't say anything further.

"Doctor Charles Montgomery built this house and here in this basement is where he worked. Charles was a doctor to the stars but he was also a drug addict." From here I proceed to tell her the sorted, tragic history of Nora and her husband. The abortions, the mutilation and murder of their baby, their deaths. And finally what Charles did, how he created Thaddeus, the creature she had seen with Leah. "What he created was ungodly and monstrous. And to this day that thing remains, down here, in this very basement," I finish seriously, eyeing her open mouth and wide stare.

"Oh my god," she begins, understanding just what it was that she witnessed. And then, "You are so full of shit! I don't believe a word that's come out of your mouth," she rolls her eyes. "Just forget it, Tate. Forget I ever asked," her arms cross again, "asshole."

I'm stunned, lost, gaping at her. "What," I splutter, "you fucking asked me what's down here. I told you!"

Violet shakes her head, "Just stop. You're not scaring me."

I exhale sharply out of my nose and she stands up. "I'm out of here," and has a foot on the first step when she turns back to me, "you coming?"

"Wait," I swing around, "just wait, okay?" She does. And I know she's not really mad, not actually mad, not like the last time we were down there. This is playful mad. You're still going to get to lick my clit and maybe fuck me mad. But I set this all up for a fucking reason. "Sit back down," I huff, "five minutes." Violet doesn't move, I cock a brow at her, "Unless you're too afraid." And that has her marching back over, dropping down on the box crate I set out for her, lower lip jutting adorably.

"I'm not afraid of anything."

"Then put your fucking fingers on the thing." She does immediately and without question. She is so fucking easy sometimes. And I love her for it. Fucking fierce little girl indeed. And she is all mine. I grin. "What should we ask it?"

"Really?"

I nod but it begins moving, darting across the board, "See! I told you, it's Charles!"

"Is it?" Violet smirks meanly, "because it feels an awful lot like you're the one moving it."

"What's it spelling?" I demand.

With a sigh my girl repeats the letters aloud, "W-I-L-L-U-B-M-Y-G-I-R-L-F-R-I-E-N-D-?" Glancing up at me, hazel orbs huge and bright in the flicker of the flames, she begins, "Oh my god," exactly the way she had only a minute earlier. "Charles is a fucking perverted ghost." Narrowing her eyes, searching the dark walls around us, she adds, "I'm way too young for you, dickbag."

I barely suppress a groan, think about knocking my head against the board. "Fuck, Violet, that was supposed to be…"

"Cute?" She grins, flashing white teeth. I nod dumbly. "And, uh, Charles," she glances up at the ceiling, "I'm already taken. So, sorry," she shrugs effortlessly.

"Taken," I repeat.

"Seriously, Tate? What was it you said that first day we hung out? Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're smarter than that." I cast my gaze up from my lap, shyly. "I don't just throw my virginity at any boy I meet. So, duh. I figured I was already your girlfriend."

"Really?" And my heart fucking soars, hammering against my chest.

"Yeah," she smiles. "Now can we get out of this fucking freaky-ass basement? I wasn't lying before. I hate it down here." I jump up and she takes my hand and pulls me up the stairs, out of the darkness, into the light.

* * *

After that, Violet lets me into her cunt whenever I want, ask nicely, kiss her sweetly, or kiss her hard and brutal for that matter. She skips classes with me, ditching for days at a time, stealing smokes from the Korean place on the corner, and stirring up trouble.

"Don't you ever have track practice?" she asks me one day.

"I think they kicked me off the team," I say, snorting a line of coke cut with one of Dr. Daddy's credit cards, "I haven't shown up for practice since October," I smile. Violet chuckles, tucks a few loose strands of hair back behind her ear, and eyes the line I've left for her, the rolled up twenty I'm offering.

"I've never…"

"You'll like it," I tell her, mouth on her cheek, her neck.

And she does.

* * *

"I saw something," she tells me one afternoon, sitting, smoking, on the low brick wall around Murder House, her father gone for the day, her mother at the market.

"What?" I'm leaning back, between her coltish legs, as fingers drag across my scalp making me shudder and sigh.

"I don't know. It was like someone was there, walking through the foyer, and then just, like, gone. I went looking for them," she puffs, blows smoke through her nostrils and around my head, clouding me in nicotine, "but there was no one there."

"Well, that can…"

"And there was this nurse. In my fucking bedroom, all bloody and shit, talking at me. But it was after all that coke, so I don't know if I really saw anything." She waits, I wait. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

"I believe in something," I tell her honestly. Maybe Murder House is filled with ghosts. Maybe it's hell. I don't fucking know. I just know that I, we, belong here. And the house fucking knows it too.

"Mom's seen them too," she goes on wistfully, lips at my ear, chest pressed tightly against my back, warding off the chill. "Said there was a man in her bedroom, drinking a scotch, and grabbing at her, trying to fuck her or something." She shrugs, "I wrote it off when she told me, thinking she was just lonely without dad, but now I'm not so sure."

Fucking Hugo. My father was a piece of shit, whore-monger. And apparently still is. He'd fuck anything that could walk. And I want him the fuck away from my girl. I grit my teeth to keep from punching the wall, busting my knuckles on the brick, staining them more red, scaring Violet.

After that, her admissions, we stand there, smoke our sticks in silence, staying close, sharing body heat.

* * *

Violet slowly becomes more and more obsessed with the house, the history, the murders. There are enough to make it seem unnatural. The ones that made the papers, the closed and cold cases, she scrolls through on microfilm at the public library while I dip my sticky fingers into purses, backpacks, stealing cash, cigarettes, condoms. Those are always a pleasant surprise.

First there were Charles and Nora Montgomery. And their sad, twisted, monster of a baby. Then the nurses, killed in the sixties by some fuck who hated women or something. Troy and Brian, the twins, found slashed to death in the basement of the house before their fourteenth birthday. And finally Larry. Fucking Larry. And his whole fucking family.

This accounting doesn't even include Hugo, or Moira, who Violet's doesn't know is dead. Or the Black Dahlia, that poor bitch who got cut in half. I've seen it, her body, laid out on a table, liver hanging from her bloodied torso. Fuck, it was hot. Blood, guts, her slashed open face. Charles could be masterful, when he wanted to be, when the ether was in control and not the weak-willed little man Nora married.

She finds pictures of them, the dead, gets copies, tacks them to a pin-board that she has put up in her room especially for this purpose. It's fucking eerie, dark. Even to me. And I fantasize about murdering her father, her mother, my mother, hell, most of the kids in our hellhole of a school.

And then Violet is convincing her mother, the good wife, to take The Eternal Darkness bus tour with her, just so they can hear about the most gruesome murders in Los Angeles. The tour ends with Murder House and the older woman is so terrified by the time they reach it she flees the open-air bus, darting through the gate, screaming about it being her house and stop, stop, stop! I watch from my place, leaning against the fence, waiting for Violet, an unfiltered Camel between my lips, smirk on my face.

"How was it?"

"Fucking lame," she replies, taking the smoke from my mouth inhaling, exhaling, stealing a lingering kiss, free hand stroking my cock through my low-slung battered jeans.

"What about your mom?" I ask, turning, looking behind me at the still gaping doorway.

"We could do it in the basement," she returns, lips pouty, succulent, the color of black cherries.

"I thought you hated it down there."

She shrugs, "The ghosts could watch." I take the cigarette back from her, grin around the purple-red stained tip, and kill it. Her hand hasn't shifted from my straining zipper, it's massaging, pressing in a delicious way, as her lips latch onto my Adam's apple, sucking, leaving a mark, making my knees a little weak. I'm shaking I need her so fucking bad. "I want to suck you off," she breathes into my skin and I shudder as a thrill runs down my spine.

"Okay," I tell her and she takes my hand, leading me around the house.

Later, when we're in her room, some sad, haunting record spinning, her head pillowed on my chest, the knees of her black tights still dusty, we hear footfalls on the stairs. "Violet?" The mother calls, tone frantic, and I don't wait for my girl to say anything, just dive from the bed and into the closet. She nudges the door closed with one granny-booted toe even as the wife flies into the room.

"Mom? What?"

"We're leaving. Now. Tonight. We're going to Aunt Joe's. We are not spending another night here. Now! We're not going to be prisoners in this house anymore."

"What? What are you talking about?" Violet demands, sounding confused, bored, as my heart pounds, nerves firing, legs twitching to burst out of this box, knock that woman down, grab Violet, and run away with her. They are not going anywhere. She is not going anywhere. I will never let that happen. I will do whatever I have to. To keep her there, with me. Always.

"Now, Violet!"

"Fuck you!" My girl explodes. And even I'm a little taken aback by the fury in her voice, the pulsing rage. "I'm not going anywhere! I love this house," she declares, the very walls vibrate, throb at her words. "It's got soul."

"I can't stay here." The words are shaky, laced with terror.

"So leave. I'll be fine. Go to Aunt Joe's. Just leave me alone."

"Violet," she cries as I peer through the crack. She is holding onto my girl's arm but she isn't budging, not an inch. She's fucking strong. Not that mommy or daddy know, realize, see. But I do.

"If you make me move, drag me across the country again, I will run away. And believe me, I know how to leave so will never find me."

And that's the end of it, her mother stands there, staring, shocked, disbelieving, as Violet walks toward me, throws the closet door open and takes me by the hand, tugging me out into the room, before leading me into the hall, down the stairs, and out into the night. I don't even spare a glance for the distraught woman who tried to steal the only light in my world, the only thing that made my life worth living. And now I know, really know, that Violet feels the same way about me.

We call her dad from a payphone down the block. "You need to come home now," Violet tells him. I can't hear what he says but he seems to be putting up a fight. "She tried to abscond with me to Aunt Joe's, just fucking now, Dad. She has totally lost her shit." A pause, "Yeah, she's probably depressed. But's she's also crazy. And I'm saying it's your fault. You drove her crazy. You're a cheater. Young girls, old ladies with feather dusters, you're so weird and pathetic I'm kind of surprised you haven't gone after me," she hollers, livid. I place my hand low on her back, feel the thrum, the electricity of her anger. It lives inside her, the darkness, I always knew it did. "Yeah, well get your sorry-ass over here. Like, now!"

Dr. Ben gives Violet's mom a sleeping pill. My girl avoids him, staying locked away with me in her room, refusing to answer when he comes to the door, even after he threatens to break it down. "Go ahead," she screeches, "but you'll be the one who's sorry, fucker!" I smile behind her, my front to her back, as I slip my hand from her waist, up to cover her breast, while the other dips down into her tights, toying with her clit as she rages. She's so fucking gorgeous like this, I can't keep away from her, can't control myself around her. She's burning me up in her fire and I am a willing sacrifice.

* * *

Over the next two days Violet and I skip school to get drunk on stolen gin and vodka, hiding away in her room. Her mother remains in a drug induced coma thanks to big fucking Ben. And I know we're going to get caught eventually; I think it's been nearly two weeks since we last walked through the gates of Westfield High, but I don't give a shit. I fucking hate that place, hate school, the popular kids, the cliques, the bullying. I love Violet and if she doesn't want to go either, then I have absolutely no reason to be there.

We're bombed, lying naked, sprawled across her bed, when Violet says, "They'll always be here, won't they? The others?"

And I know she means the ghosts, that she has finally come to accept the truth of them, their existence. I'm wasted and I should lie, play the part, be confused but instead I mumble, "They can't hurt us, Violet. They're just trying to scare you. Or maybe talk to you. Sometimes, they don't even know they're dead. If they're bothering you, just tell them to go away. And they will. Just like that."

"I wish I could tell my mom that. My dad."

"You can't," I rush to sit up, head spinning, panic coursing through my veins, "you can't. Violet, if you tell anyone what we know, they'll say you're crazy. They'll want to lock you up. They'll try to take you away from here. Away from me. We'd never see each other again." I'm gripping her forearms, clutching her to me, our faces mere inches apart, as she stares at me with wide, shocked eyes. "Promise me, Violet," I say urgently, her gaze is just over my shoulder. I shake her, "Promise me!"

"I promise," she hushes, looking frightened and I let her go, kissing the angry red marks left on her pale skin where I held her too tightly.

* * *

Violet's mother does not get any better; calling out in her sleep, talking incoherently about ghosts and visions, and Dr. Harmon, in his infinite wisdom gives her more drugs.

"I wish we could get our hands on some of that shit," my girl tells me, sitting on the beach, watching the waves crash, and feeling so small, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, the universe, life. "But my dad keeps the pills locked up," she offers a small smile, "I checked."

"You want downers?"

She shrugs.

"Why?" I tuck her in closer to my body, "I can get us more coke, if you want."

"Nah," she says. "I already can't fucking sleep. Not in that house. Not when you're gone, at least." I had been spending most of my nights there, spooning her, whispering stories about magic and princesses, dragons and fairies, blood and gore and savagery, into her ear. Old legends, Grimm's tales, things that I loved as a little fucking kid. "I hear things, voices, calling me, telling me to do things." And that is when I know what I had only suspected before, the house has her. It owns her as it owns me. "I feel like a crazy person," she murmurs into my shoulder, biting down on the meat of my arm and making me wince.

"Constance has a prescription for Valium. I have a couple of bottles," I inform her, breathing in the fresh, intoxicating smell of her, "if you want one."

"Really?" she sniffs, eyes pleading. "I'm just so tired, Tate."

"Yeah, I'll bring them over tonight." And she kisses my cheek before turning back to watch the ocean.

That night as Violet sleeps the sleep of the dreamless, wrapped in my arms, a Valium dissolving in her stomach, flooding her system and making her still, I listen. The house is silent, no footfalls, no creaking, groaning. But I do hear the voices, the ones she talked about, calling us to join them, to stay. And I think, one day, but not now, not tonight, not like this.

I must eventually doze off as well, slip into the dark, because I awake to the sound of a car backfiring, a firecracker right in the room, something loud enough to make Violet sit up and scream even through her drug induced slumber.

It's the wife. She's shot Ben. Fucker snuck up on her in the night, maybe tired of sleeping on the couch in his office, now that he has to keep an eye on the missus. Or maybe he was horny, thinking a drugged woman wouldn't know left from right, cheating husband from dream lover. Who fucking knows. But there was a gun under her pillow and even out of her mind on the shit he gave her she had managed to get a hold of it, point, and shoot. Grazed the good doctor, more blood than substance. The ambulance crew patch him up while Violet and I watch from the window, observing the frantic scene below. Lights flash, people dart to and fro, orders are called. Finally she emerges, the shooter, not in handcuffs but held by either arm and frog-marched by two police officers to a squad car where they load her in, careful of her head.

Dr. Daddy, the fuck, looks up at Violet's room only once, never knocking on the door, informing his daughter of what was going on, instead leaving her locked away, to guess, to sob, to cling to me like I am the last thing left keeping her grounded, keeping her alive. Like I am oxygen and she is starving for it.

We stare down at him, the pair of us, silhouetted in the light, and I know he sees me, counts two shadows, but he turns and leaves, climbs into the goddamn Volvo.

But it's too much for the small girl at my side. "Mom!" Violet screams, rushing forward suddenly, wrenching open her door, and running down the stairs. She reaches for the front door, lunging, even as I hold her back. Car doors slam, lights fade, and they are gone. I stand there, with my arm around my girl, holding her, as her father checks her mother into a psych ward, locking her away, and ridding himself of the first of two burdens.

"My mom's not crazy though," she cries, beating tiny white fists ineffectually against my chest and I know if she were really angry with me it would hurt, but she isn't. "Those things are real. They're here. With us. All the time."

"I know," I reply, tone soothing, pulling her flush against my body as I stroke my hand down her hair. "But you saw what they did. Just what I said. They took her away. And they'll take you away too, Violet."

She sobs into my chest, soaking my flannel shirt, but nods her head in acceptance, "I know," she wails plaintively. "Don't let them take me, Tate. Please. I can't leave. I can't go."

"I will never, ever, let anyone, anything, take you away from me. I'll die before that happens," I seethe and she clutches me all the tighter for it. Just fucking thinking about it, I can't breathe.

After that, Ben is hardly ever around; out drinking, whoring. He really should give my cocksucker of a mother a call. They just might be a match made if fucking heaven.

Violet drifts further into the ether, like a spirit carried on the wind, drifting in and out of this plane of existence as I watch, ever her guard, her protector. Her yielding lips, lush body, are mine for the taking even as she spouts poetry born of a fragile mind, nonsensical things, the house breaking her down, reforming her in it's image. And even after two weeks, her mother does not come home.

* * *

"Mix for my violent Violet" available at - www .dropbox. com sh/ 1vrlpqrlxo6w3o0 /_Hz0Bt5SME (just remove all spaces)

*A couple of songs used came out within weeks or a couple months of the time frame of this story. I assume Tate may have heard/recorded them off the radio or obtained bootleg copies in those instances.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N – Thank you to all of you who have read, reviewed, favorited, and followed this story. I have really appreciated it! Here is the final installment, which I finally managed to sit down and edit (after having a small accident with a kitchen knife, a pumpkin, and my finger - making typing rather difficult – so no new stories for a little while). It is a bit choppy in places but I figure better on here than languishing on my laptop. I hope you enjoy it and think the whole thing was worth the wait.

Disclaimer – American Horror Story does not belong to me. Only the idea for this little fic does.

Violet/Tate – Rated M

* * *

Part 4

We meet in the attic, there are board games piled in heaps, old moth-eaten clothes, and cardboard boxes from years gone by. Violet is in tears, her face a wet, red mess, lips swollen and bitten to the point that they are cracked and bleeding, hands twisting as she wrings out a sodden tissue.

"What is it?" I ask immediately, concern twisting my features, hurrying me forward to put my arms around her small shoulders. She is shaking.

"He knows about school," she sobs, tugging at my sleeve as I lean back, skim my hands down to her waist, studying the grave expression on her face. "He came to my room, all saying it was his fault, that he's been a lousy father lately, that he understands how hard my life has been this year." She wails, "He told me that it wasn't like me, he doesn't even know me, not anymore. And then," she pushes her face into my chest, "he said that we would find another school," and my heart pounds sluggishly once, twice, and stops.

"He doesn't care that they're all the same," she whispers bitterly, "that I hate it there." I nod, my throat tight. If I speak I'll scream, cry, so I stay quiet. "As long as I have you, I don't need school, I don't need any of it," Violet goes on, grasping desperately at the back of my cardigan. "But he wants to take me away from you. He knows, knows about us, everything." And now I'm gripping the back of her blue flowered sack dress just as tightly, just as urgently. "He wants to send me to Lemon Grove Prep School, it's a boarding school, Tate," she snuffles, moaning against me. "He wants me to fucking live there because I have a bright fucking future. And he wants to get me away from the bad element in this town. That's you," she reaches up, clawing at my face in her mania, a panic attack overwhelming her. "Oh, god, that's you. He'll take me away," she repeats, voice softer, as she sinks down to the ground, and I collapse with her, clutching her on the dusty attic floor.

"Makes sense," Violet says finally, quietly, as I stare, wide eyed and furious, hopelessly lost in her sadness, the darkness creeping in on me. "He sent Mom away, I don't know why I thought I was safe. I just assumed I was his little girl. What a fantasy," she spits. "I'm so stupid and naive sometimes. Of course he's going to send me away too," I rock us back and forth, holding her, trying to hide my crestfallen face, my hard black gaze, from her vantage. I need to be strong for her when she is weak, just as she is strong for me.

"There is nothing stupid about you," I tell her with conviction. "And I won't let him send you away." I pull back, stare at the tear tracks running down her face and know they match my own. Violet just nods, reels me back in, holding tight.

With a sigh, teeth once again pulling at her deep pink lip, her eyes closed, she adds, "That's not all." She sounds calmer, more collected as she releases me, sitting down and crossing her legs on the wooden floorboards. Our hands remain linked, fingers tangling together, as I bring hers to my mouth, kissing them. "Hayden is coming out here to quote, unquote, help my father with the house, his fucking abysmal practice," Violet rolls her eyes, sniffing, "now that my mother is ill."

My girl's voice turns cold and hard, brittle, like ice, "She's not fucking sick. That bastard. He put her in a mental hospital." Violet gasps in a stuttering lungful of air, "She is going to move into this house, take over it, make it her own. My mom is never coming home, is she?"

"When does she get here?" I demand rather than answer her seemingly unanswerable question.

"Tonight. Oh god," she mumbles, shakes her head, shoulders beginning to heave once more, "tonight." The panic is building again; I can see it on her face, hear it in her voice, feel it in the room around us as the walls close it, sheltering us. "I have to get out of here," she whispers, looking up at me, squeezing my hand, and amends, "we have to get out of here."

"You mean run away?" I lick my lips. I would go with her in a heartbeat. I had never intended to stay anyway. Over the last weeks Violet has been the only thing keeping me sane, keeping me here, when all I have wanted was to escape Constance, life, the world. Before her I was never strong enough to leave, not on my own. With her though, I am invincible. I can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything, if it means keeping her safe, keeping her with me. Always.

"Yeah," she nods, huge hazel eyes studying me.

"Give me twenty minutes," I breathe. "I'll pack and come back for you." Violet almost smiles.

"We can take Vivien's car," she huffs, shoving damp strands of hair away from her face, a small sarcastic laugh escaping her, "she won't be needing it." It's the closest thing to joy I have heard from her in days. My sad, spooky little girl.

"Who's Vivien?"

And she just gives me a look, eyes narrowed, perplexed, before saying, "My mom? Her name is Vivien. You didn't know that?"

Fuck. I shrug, "I guess I didn't. Sorry." I've never thought of her as anything other than Dr. Harmon's wife or Violet's mother. I mean, I knew she had a fucking name. I had just never bothered with knowing what it was.

"Whatever," Violet rolls her eyes and I see a flash of the old her, my pulse quickens. "Go get your shit," she tells me, "I'll get mine." There is a thoughtful pause as her gaze shifts, coming back to me only after a long exhalation of breath, "Meet me in my room, okay? Promise?" Some color has come back into her cheeks, a touch of excitement in her eyes, hands busy wiping at her face. And all I want in that moment is to fucking kiss her, so I do, mouths crashing together, trying to pour out everything she means to me, everything I want for us, into that one moment, that one kiss.

"Violet, I promise. I love you. I'll be here. I will never leave you." And she purrs, pleased, against my lips as pale fingers tug at my hair.

* * *

But I break my promise. I don't mean to, I really fucking don't, but I do.

I skid into our house, sprinting full tilt, sliding across the hardwood floors, racing up the stairs and through the door to my room. Violet always has me running to get somewhere. Who needs track when I have her? The rewards are far greater.

I reach up to the top shelf of my closet, drag down the black duffle bag I keep there, and toss it onto my bed. I decide to say nothing to my family, my siblings. I couldn't explain it, why I was leaving, not to Addie or Beau. It will be better, easier, if I simply disappear, drift away, just a memory for them. Rather than sad sorrowful good byes and confused, pained glances holding me back, chipping at my resolve. They were the only good things in my life until Violet came along, my reasons for staying. But I can't afford to think like that. Not anymore. Not with my girl waiting, nervous and troubled, one house over.

And just as I'm thinking this Addie races into my room screaming, "Tate! Tate! Help! Help!"

"What is it?" I spin around, dropping a pile of shirts to the mattress.

"Beau can't breathe! And Momma's not here. What do I do? He can't breathe, Tate!" She scurries off again, hurrying to the attic and I chase after her.

Beau is, in fact, struggling to draw air into his lungs, gasping, moaning. There is a horrifying rattle in his chest.

"Stay here! Stay with him," I instruct my sister who does exactly as she is told, holding our brother's weak hand.

In the kitchen I nearly wrench the phone off the wall and hammer 9-1-1 into the key pad. An operator answers, "Do you have an emergency?"

"Please, my brother isn't breathing."

"Have you checked his airway, sir?"

"He's not fucking choking. It's his chest, his lungs, he can't get any air."

"Alright, sir, please remain calm. Help will be on it's way in only a moment. What is your address?"

I give her all of the fucking information. Violet never forgotten but pushed to the back of my mind.

I ride to the hospital with Beau, Addie up front with the driver, after calling Constance at the beauty parlor and telling us to fucking meet us over there. Bitch. Not that she ever gave two shits about any of us, least of all Beau.

While we are waiting for Mother to arrive I pump quarters into the payphone like it's a video game at the arcade but every time I try Violet's number I get a busy signal. Maybe she's talking some fucking sense into Dr. Daddy, or calling back home to Boston, she has friends there, or her Aunt in Florida. I have no fucking clue but the minute Constance arrives I sail out the doors, brushing past her with barely a glance. I'll leave her to put on her show, to act the grieving, loving mother. The performance will go better without my observation, my participation, anyway.

I grab the only cab outside of the hospital, out maneuvering an elderly woman and not giving a shit. At least I didn't knock her down, bash her skull in with a pipe, with my fists, for the ride. I thought about it. Instead I give the driver Violet's address and shift impatiently in the backseat for the fifteen minutes it take us to arrive. I throw a twenty at him not listening to the actual fee and run toward the closed door. The Volvo is missing. He must be at the airport picking up his fucking mistress. I storm into the house, calling, "Violet! Vi!" I'm almost two hours overdue.

And for all my fucking panic, my worry, she's napping. Curled up in an adorable little ball on the purple comforter, hair fanned out like a halo around her head, looking like a sleepy kitten. I grin to myself, thinking of all the interesting ways I could wake her, but really all I want to do is sink down beside her, wrap her up in my arms, hold her, until I drift off as well. I am exhausted, dead on my feet.

"Violet?" I call from the foot of the bed, voice pitched low, waiting for her to stir. I slink closer, get one knee on the mattress, shake her shoulder, "Vi?" And that's when I notice it: how shallow her breathing is, the empty orange pill bottle carelessly left on the bed, the words Constance Langdon and Valium printed on the little white label. My vision blurs, shifts. There had been thirty pills when I gave her the bottle. I had seen her take one. Where had the other fucking twenty-nine gone?

My palms flex, gripping her tightly enough to leave bruises, as I shake her violently. My teeth rattle in my skull as her body lolls about like a ragdoll. There is no response.

Violet had taken the pills, all of them, when I hadn't shown up, as I had promised. The knowledge froze my heart, the blood in my veins.

"Fuck," I scream, voice reverberating in the empty house, yanking on my blonde locks, eyes glazing over with wetness. Hefting her into my arms she is a dead weight and I can barely balance her in my blind rage, vision clouded, as I stumble forward lost and wailing with grief, with guilt. I should have fucking been here.

In the end I need to lay her on the ground; I can barely stand on my shaking legs, let alone safely carry her. I reach for her hand, trembling, savoring its softness, and drag her from her room, into the hall.

Her body makes a sickening noise as it glides across the gleaming wooden boards, chucks knocking into the baseboards and leaving scuff marks.

"Don't you die on me, Violet!" I howl. "No, please, don't you die." I can barely fucking breathe, choking on my own tears, my sobs, my throat swelling closed as I groan, climbing into the sparkling white bathtub and pulling her in after me, on top of me.

"Don't you die," I repeat like a mantra, "don't you die," turning on the water, soaking us both in a matter of seconds. "Violet!"

When the water does nothing to rouse her I shove three fingers down her throat, gagging her, forcing her to wretch up the little blue pills that are stealing her life away.

She coughs, sputters, swallows water, and coughs again. Her head turns, eyes seeking me out even as they roll around in her head, unable to stop on anything, to pinpoint my face, my heated black gaze. She can hear me weeping behind her, feel my hands holding her against my body, my lips ghosting along the back of her skull.

Violet's mouth opens but no words come out, only small gasping breaths before the moaning begins, the crying, her face crumbling, tears mingling with the water falling from above.

I push her hair out of the way, kiss her ear, her neck, her sodden cheek, rocking her against my body, nuzzling into her. "I'm sorry, Violet. I'm so sorry. Beau was sick. We had to take him to the hospital. I came back as soon as I could." But she won't, can't, stop crying, body weak and shaking, shivering, even as I make the water steaming hot, my mouth covering every inch of her, begging for forgiveness.

The sobs grow weaker and I think she's calming, her pliant body relaxing into me. She turns her head again, a lost little smile gracing her visage, and I kiss her lips as her fingers weakly grasp the wrist that is wrapped around her middle. "I love you, Violet," I hush fiercely, needing her to know as I hold her tighter. "I'll always come back for you."

And as her eyes close the wheezing noises end with her tears. She stops breathing. It takes a beat or two for it to register in my mind. That she didn't survive. That after all that, she is dead, here, in my arms, as the shower pounds down on our saturated bodies.

"Violet?" I ask quietly, barely above a whisper, then "Violet?" louder, hands snaking up her torso to grab her shoulders. A quick movement of my arms, a jolt, and her body sways forward then slumps, returning slowly to rest against my chest in little more than a heap.

"Violet!" I scream, kicking the end of the tub, bile rising, burning me from the inside out. "No, no, no! Not like this!"

Nothing changes. The water rains down on us. My heart hammers against my ribs. The body in my arms is warm and yielding, still lush and gorgeous. But Violet is dead, her pulse still, her breath expired.

Finally I reach out with a numb hand and turn the knob, shutting off the shower, and just sit there, holding my girl, kissing her, inhaling the rich smell that is only hers.

Until I fucking snap out of it. Stop crying, start thinking.

I don't know how long it will take. When she'll wake up, panting, gulping for air, an approximation of life, down there in that basement. Alone.

I so want to be with her, to hold her hand, but there is some shit I fucking need to handle first. Violet was not responsible for her own death. And if it is the last thing I do, I will have vengeance on those who stole her life from her, from me. Took her away before we were ready.

Leaving my girl, limp and wet and dead, there on the tiled bathroom floor is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. "Eyes, look your last," I mumble, quoting _Romeo and Juliet_, studying her, the way her pale hands rest on her stomach, the soft sweep of her eyelashes on her cheek, the curve of her pink little mouth, before striding from the room, not chancing a glance backward.

Afraid that, like Juliet, Violet will awaken lost and alone, frightened, looking for me, I swing into her room and upturn a cup on her desk filled with pens, markers, and grab the black Sharpie from the pile. I go to the wall across from her bed, the one she stares at as I hold her, as we talk, drifting into sleep at night, and write **I LOVE YOU** in large, bold letters, hoping she will see it, will know that, like I said, I will always come back for her. And I am coming back. Here, to Murder House. To die with her. To be with her. Forever. It's still, sort of, like running away. It's an escape. A chance.

Then I am down the stairs and out the front door, crashing through the gate, striding into my house and sprinting immediately up to my room. Doctor Harmon could be home any moment. With his fucking cunt bitch. They drove Violet to this. It's all their fault. I can barely see for the fury, the rage, the murderous intent, the monster clawing at my brain, howling for vengeance, for retribution. For blood.

Fucking Mother is still at the hospital, weeping at Beau's bedside, like she isn't fucking responsible his current state. The neglectful cocksucker. He's going to fucking die and it's all her goddamn fault. I scream, dropping down into a squat, barely able to hold myself up, hammering at my skull with fists. I can barely fucking breathe.

It takes me until the count of twenty to stand, inhale, exhale. I cross to the bed and begin tossing things into the duffle waiting there: my favorite CDs, a picture of Addie and I from my nightstand, some clothes, my extra chucks, the notebook filled with sappy poetry and pen and ink drawings I have kept throughout high school. Things I want. Then I flip the mattress. The shotgun, the two handguns, stare up at me from their hiding place.

Before Violet that had been my plan. Get the guns, get the bullets, go to school, kill as many fuckers as I could, and then fucking off myself. But now? I wouldn't be able to do it. Not having Violet. She needed me like I needed her and I would never abandoned her like that.

However, Violet is fucking dead and me? I want to die. Still want to die. I just have a new fucking target, a new goal.

I have enough shots, too many, but as I slip into dry clothes, tug on the black coat, the one from my dreams, my fantasies, the one that has been hanging in my closet all along, I grab all three guns. It's better to be prepared. And with that, I throw the strap of the duffle over my head, let it fall across my chest and take the steps two at a time, before going outside and taking up my position behind the tall bushes on the front porch. The ones I used to watch Violet from and it seems like a fitting fucking tribute.

I don't have to wait long and I'm thankful because all I can think about is my girl, alone in that house, with her body. My muscles twitch, keyed up, as my fingers flex on the trigger of the gun in my hand.

Dr. Ben rolls up in his shiny car, a young, smiling, auburn haired woman in the passenger seat. I sneer into the darkness; little bitch thinks she won. Thinks she'll be queen of the castle, send Violet off to boarding school, away from me, maybe have a baby, and be Ben's perfect doting wife. Minus the fact that he already fucking has one, stashed in a psych ward forty miles down the freeway. He is such a goddamn shit that I almost can't stand it. Wanting to howl, to yell into the void, the night sky, tear out my hair. I have to bite my lip to keep silent. My mouth tastes of copper and pain. I can't give away my position, not yet, so instead I allow the silent tears to fall, to run down my cheeks and off of my chin, soaking into the front of my shirt.

They emerge from the car, talking happily, and, on cue, I step out from the bushes. Face hot and wet, flushed, and eyes frantic. "Oh my god! Doctor Harmon! It's Violet," I call, panic lacing my voice. This is fucking it. I am finally fighting the noble war, a war more noble than I ever imagined sat in that oppressive, sad office of his.

"Tate?" The fucker is surprised.

"I think she tried to hurt herself! I don't know what happened. She's over here!" And the good doctor comes running, wife number two close on his heels.

"Where, Tate? Where is she?" he demands, crossing Constance's front yard and really it's a fuck you to her as well because this is truly going to ruin her rose bushes.

They're both on the lawn when the first shotgun blast rips big fucking Ben nearly in half. Close range and I can't help but grin. The girl, Hayden, screams, a blood curdling sound that makes my insides hot and liquid, spine tingling. She takes a shot that caves in her face, top half nearly blow away, and crumples to the ground.

Harmon's not quite dead, close though. I approach, loom over him. "You are the filth of the world. I'm just cleaning you up. For Violet." I feel nothing but elation staring down at the bleeding, dying mess of a man before me.

"Where?" he gasps, hands clutching at the grass.

"Oh, don't worry. She's not here. I, unlike you, love her," I nod, lips still quirked upward, high on watching his life ebb away. "I, unlike you, would never hurt her. And this I'll promise you," I crouch down so we're even closer, so he can see me, hear me, fully. "I'll be with her soon. I'll take care of her. Forever. And, you? You're going to die right here so I don't have to spend another fucking minute of my existence staring into your shit-eating, grinning, bastard face." And with that I level a hand gun at Ben's head, letting go a single round. Killing the fucker. It's too good of a death, too easy for him, but I don't have enough time to truly do the job justice. The police will already be on their way; the shotgun blasts were hardly discreet.

Leaving the larger gun on the lawn with the bodies I rather gracefully hurdle the brick wall around the property and land on the lush green grass surrounding Murder House knowing that it means I'm home free. Still, I desperately want to be with her when I go.

Rushing up the steps in a flurry of limbs, coat flying behind me, the house feels warm, welcoming. I drop the duffle in Violet's room, our room, kick it under the bed, and move down the hall into the bathroom. I doubt I have long.

Violet's body is compliant, damp, cool to the touch. Not much, just not quite alive. The tears start anew when I see her lying there again. So beautiful in death. She died fucking crying and so will I.

Picking her up, cradling her to me, I step into the empty tub. With Violet leaning back, soft curves nestled against my chest, I finally feel a sense of peace. I can breathe again.

There are sirens blaring outside, red and blue lights flashing. This is how it was always meant to end. With a bang, not with a whimper. And with a last wet kiss to her pallid cheek, surrounded in the scent of Violet, lavender and vanilla, purity and love, I put the handgun in my mouth, taste the metal, and without another thought pull the trigger, effectively blowing a hole right through the back of my fucking cranium.

* * *

When I come to in the basement, minutes or hours later, it's still fucking dark, night. There are footsteps upstairs and I know that the police have arrived. Probably found both Violet and I, dead, embracing, in love and together in that fucking bathroom. But I'm still here and that's all I fucking cared about. The body upstairs, I don't need it, not if I have her for always. Forever.

But I'm fucking alone. Tucked into a cold, concrete room used for storing decaying boxes and an ancient rocking chair. Violet is no where to be seen. I sit up, study the four walls around me, waiting. And then I hear something: gentle, muffled, moaning cries. A terrified, lonely, heartbreaking sound.

"Violet," I whisper, listening, then, "Violet?" a little louder. There is a catch in the noise, a little cough and splutter. I'm on my feet in an instant. "Where are you? Vi?" I'm frantic, heart pounding uselessly, as I storm out of the room following the sound of harsh, gasping breaths.

I find her just next door, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, a tiny little ball of girl, shaking. Her head rests on her knees as she sobs.

Crouching down in front of her I put a hand on her hair, move it to cup her face. She leans into my touch, glancing up, eyes swollen and pink, cheeks tear stained, lips wet and quivering. She is so beautifully broken that I think if my heart were still alive, still functioning, it would stop and I would die all over again.

"Tate?" she sniffles. I nod, using the pad of my thumb to wipe at her tears. Her eyes are wide, relieved, but then the sobs begin afresh and she moans, "I think I died when I took all those pills."

Prying her small hands away from their death grip on her legs I hold them in my own, feeling sick, tracks of salt water trailing down my face, over my mouth. "I tried to save you," I tell her, voice weak, as her mouth falls open, snuffles giving way to hiccups. "I did. I tried to make you throw them up. You threw up some. Not enough." My eyes search her face, waiting to see if her memories of that moment are coming back to her. When she continues to watch me blankly, licking her trembling lower lip, making low whimpering noises, I feel my own sadness, my regret, choking me. "You took so many, Violet." And now she is crying again, full body wracking sobs, rocking back and forth on the hard floor. "You died crying," I say, swallowing. "I held you, you were safe, you died," I pause, breathe, wait for her eyes to focus on my own, "loved."

After a few moments Violet gently pulls her hands back, wiping at her face with the ragged sleeves of her cardigan, nose dripping as she sniffs. "I'm so sorry, Violet," I sigh, my face crumbling, no longer able to hold back my own torrent of tears. And then she's holding me, clutching me fiercely to her, comforting me, a hand trailing up and down my bent back.

"Tate," she whispers, swollen lips on my ear, my cheek, "Tate."

"I'm here, Vi."

"Don't leave me," she adds, chin on my shoulder, fingers threading through my hair.

"I need to show you something," I say, leaning back a fraction of an inch so that I can catch her gaze. Her eyes search my face as she frowns but she nods. We stand up in a tangle of limbs, unwilling to let go of one another.

We walk through the basement, climb the stairs. I know there is a faster way, just think of a room and you will be in it, but I doubt Violet is ready. She'll get used to it, being dead, living here, forever, haunting, existing. But she had barely had time to grasp the fact that ghosts were real, that they lived, in a manner of speaking, in her house, before she had joined their ranks. So we will be patient, learn this together. We have all the time in the world now.

The whole place is crawling with cops, poking in every room, taking notes, speaking into the house phones and responding to radio hails. Violet freezes in the foyer, inhaling sharply. "They can't see you, just like you couldn't see the ghosts in the house before, remember?" And she gives a stiff little nod, allows me to guide her forward as she casts curious glances at me.

When we are in the hall, lingering outside the door to her bedroom, Violet watches the commotion just a couple of doors down. People bustling in and out. A man in a white paper suit, hood down to expose his damp hair, with a pad of paper, calls out orders to two men just making their way up the stairs. "I'm," she stutters, gulps, "in there, aren't I?" She steps forward.

I bob my head, staying directly behind her, my chest to her back, our fingers woven together between us. She stops just before the entryway, not looking in, but staring at the back of the man. "I love you," I say into her ear, kiss her jaw where it joins with her neck. When she still doesn't move I add, "Trust me, Violet. You know I only want to protect you. It's all I've ever wanted to do, since I first saw you. I will never let anything hurt you," and she nods, taking another tentative step.

We slip around the man, nothing more than a breeze, a chill up his spine, and then we are in the bathroom. It looks worse than I had imagined. Tragic, romantic, beautiful. And a gory fucking mess. Violet, pristine, a model of gorgeous perfection even in death, rests again my corpse with its head thrown back, gun still in hand, brains coating the shower curtain, the wall behind. Blood and bits of gray matter have scattered far and wide mottling a good quarter of the white washed room. But when I look closer my face appears peaceful, serene.

Violet is beside me, still linked by our hands, she squeezes, "You…"

"I can't live without you Violet," I tell her, then amend, "couldn't."

"So, you're," and she turns, facing me full on, her free hand gliding up my arm, still encased in the black wool coat, to my face, where she cups my cheek with her tiny palm.

"Dead?" She nods. "I told you, I love you. That I would never leave you. That we would be together, always." I place my hand over hers, "I meant it."

And the tears start again but she's tugging me toward her, kissing me, mouth wet and sliding over my own, as she claws at me, desperate to get closer.

"So," the man in white begins, we ignore him, "what do you think? The girl kills herself, takes enough fucking Valium to off a horse, and Romeo here finds her, decides to end it all too?"

A second technician agrees, "Maybe. It fits our preliminary timeline."

Violet's hands are inside my coat, raking up the back of my shirt, down, then up again underneath, making me shiver. Her blunt nails scrape along the flesh of my back and I sigh into her mouth.

"But why shoot the father? The girl outside? How does that fit in?"

The first man shrugs as my eyes open, flit over to him, suddenly nervous, as Violet nibbles on my lower lip, distracted. "Maybe Daddy was a bad man? And the boy was just trying to do her a favor?"

"Think either one left a note?"

"Nothing that we've found so far."

A third tech, a woman, joins the conversation, the speculation, "There were some torn up boarding school pamphlets in her room beside the pill bottle."

"But no note," the first man repeats. "Shit."

"Well," the woman's voice again. "It's not a note but someone had written 'I love you', in black marker on her wall. You can still smell it, so it's probably fairly fresh."

"Hmm," he begins, "and the mother is where?"

"Father checked her into a psychiatric ward a few weeks ago. The boys in blue are looking into it."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

I try to pay attention but my girl has moved her hands, they're gliding along the edge of my waistband, popping the button on my jeans, dragging the zipper down tooth by tooth. "Violet," I groan, the room suddenly feeling crowded.

"You did it for me, didn't you?" She asks.

I steal another kiss, mumble against her lips, "I would kill myself a thousand times, a thousand ways, for you."

"No," she shakes her head, silken hair flying, touching my cheeks and making me groan in pleasure. "You murdered them. Dad," she sighs, "and the bitch."

"Violet, I," and I don't really know what to say so I pull back, examine her flushed, tear stained but dry face.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I'm surprised, a little nervous. I chew on my lower lip, it stings from the salt, from Violet's prior ministrations. "You're not," I stumble over the words, "mad?"

She had been pissed about Leah but that was so long ago, or it felt like it was, and we were different then, she was different. The house, it changed people, molded them, and it had been working on Violet, as it had worked on me.

"You once told me you would do anything for me."

"And I would. I still would. Anything," I rush, tone pleading, reverent.

Her mouth touches mine, "I believe you," she replies hotly, eyes burning into me, fingers sliding inside my jeans where she takes hold of my cock briefly before slipping back out to grab my waistband and tug me from the room, away from the investigators and toward the attic steps.

* * *

In death, Violet is more alive than she has been since I first met her, when she first arrived at Murder House. We find our peace in it, not fighting it, being one with it. The sentient walls around us hold us, cocoon and protect us. She smiles again, mean little smirking grins. And my heart swells.

I catch her outside smoking an unfiltered cigarette wearing nothing but one of my flannels and make her cum with only my fingers. Later, in return, she lures me into the bathroom, our bathroom, and fucks me senseless in the tub until I am trembling and spent.

Violet takes to Nora just as I had as a child. She holds the woman as she cries over her lost baby, comforting her, while I smile from the corner, standing over Larry's charred corpse, dead once again. The fucker needs to learn to stay away from me, from what's mine. A lesson I've already had to teach Hugo, my own fucking whoring father, more than once. My girl is so young and fresh and lovely that they can't keep their filthy eyes off of her. So, sometimes, I'm forced to cut them out, mash them between my fingers, crush them beneath the rubber soles of my shoes. Violet just giggles, kisses my lips, and offers to play Scrabble or Battleship, my choice.

We are a product of our upbringing and the house has done more to raise us up than anyone else ever had.

* * *

Vivien puts the house on the market; prices in the neighborhood are up, even for Murder House, and she stands to make a profit. She doesn't care, just can't wait to get back to Boston, away from all the death, the deceit, that had surrounded her while she was here. Violet never appears to her; afraid of her own emotions, her mother's weak grip on sanity.

We observe prospective owners as they come and go in a never ending parade. Lazy eyes casting over them from the forgotten, abandoned bed in our room, curled in each others arms under a sea of quilts.

The guys that buy the house claim to be roommates, business partners, Chad and Patrick. Violet tells me, "They're homos."

I pause, card half way between my hand and the deck. We're playing Rummy 5000. Because 500 is over far too quickly, and I'm ahead, but barely. My girl can be horribly fucking distracting. "How do you know?"

She shrugs, "You can just tell."

"Really?" I ask, raising a brow into my fringe.

When they move in she gloats for days.

* * *

Violet and I watch them, at night, in their room, gasping, groaning, the bed springs creaking, as we eat popcorn from the now stocked pantry, drink bourbon from the liquor cabinet, and offer color commentary like we're watching a shitty movie. Then we go to the attic and I fuck her, hard, up against the wall, her legs riding my hips, my mouth sucking a purple bruise into her neck. She moans so loud the space seems to vibrate with it. And we draw the attention of the newest residents, fumbling with the ladder, climbing sleepily up the stairs, one at a time, the muscular blond one carrying a bat, and we laugh our asses off. Her body is still pinned between my thrusting cock and the wall. They can't see us but they examine the space, eyes bouncing off of each surface, studying the mass of stuff that resides there.

"Jesus. People have left a lot of shit up here over the years," the dark haired one grumbles. The other shrugs, they share a look.

Violet eyes her boxes, my bag, our things. Moira, the maid, stashes her belongings up here as well, a row of black dresses and white aprons folded to starched perfection just in the corner. "Fuck," she says, eyes narrowing at the two men.

"Well," I snark, "maybe if you weren't so fucking loud…"

She swats my chest, "Don't be so smug," but she's smirking, "you're going to be the one carrying all this shit down to the basement when they're gone. Better put some pants on, Tate, you've got a lot of heavy lifting to do." Her eyes are bright, pleased.

"You just want to perv on me. All sweaty and shit," I grin and she lifts a shoulder, not denying it one bit, as I roll my pelvis, rock deeper within her, making her bite her lip to avoid a second, obscenely loud noise.

* * *

The dicks plan on renovating the whole fucking house. Using it as a showpiece, an office space, for their business. The blond one is in construction. The other is some kind of interior designer. I roll my eyes just fucking thinking about it. Assholes.

The ghosts are immediately thrown into a fucking tizzy over the proposed remodel. Nora won't stop wailing, losing yet more grip on reality. She wants them out of the house. As does everyone else. They're getting too close, exploring too deeply, digging up parts of the house best left undisturbed. But then Violet over hears them. Chad's sister is having a baby and well, she is just too young, wants to be an actress, and she can't possibly keep it. Not now. And will her brother take the poor thing? Hasn't he always wanted to be a father? And he is not getting any younger. And Patrick is just so good with children.

Before I can register what's happening she is flying downstairs, into the basement, and hugging Nora. There is going to be a baby in the house.

"A baby?" Nora snivels. "My baby?"

"It will be," Violet promises. And all I can do is stand behind her, smiling, proud, knowing that we can finally make Nora a mother again. But having no fucking idea how we're going to get that baby away from those two queens.

* * *

The baby is for Nora, we both know that, but, in a way it is for us too. A little thing in the house that we can play with, coddle and coo at, forever.

There is something about eternity that makes you want progeny, to pass on a little piece of yourself. You see the importance of family, of children, sharing who you are, your life. I have Violet. And we're happy. The two of us. But sometimes I find her alone, tucked into a corner of the attic, or our old room, crying over the life we never had and never will have. The things we missed out on by dying.

On one of those sad days, tears had slipped down Violet's flushed face as I held her, whispering, "I love you," over and over, as she stared, lost and afraid. She was scared that one day we would be just like the others trapped in the house, on repeat, reliving the past, prisoners in a windowless cell.

I shook my head, "They're not like us. They're lonely," as I rubbed her thigh, covered in torn purple lace, "we have each other."

Her lip trembled as she avoided my gaze, "We'll never have kids."

Tucking a finger under her chin, I guided her so that she saw me, eyes looking into my own, "Is that what you want? To have kids?" I swallowed, overcome by some deep seated emotion, something greater, bigger than love, "With me?"

She nodded. "Or, I would have. One day."

And as I covered her body with my own, sliding her loose sundress over her shoulders, exposing her pert bare breasts, no more long shirts to cover her scars, I hushed, "Anything for you, Violet. If you want a baby, we'll find a baby." She sighed as I laved a rosy pink peaked nipple with my tongue, hands tugging at my curls, hips rising to meet my own.

And it had finally happened.

So, months later, when things have fallen to shit and it becomes clear that our dream, our plan, is not going to come to fruition it's her hard gaze that informs me something has to be done about it. Patrick is another fucking cheating whore. Just like my father. Like Violet's. Chad begs, pleads, shaking with a mixture of fury and pain. He is weak, just as her mother had been weak. Patrick doesn't want the baby. He's met someone. And my girl is distraught, hurt, and when she hurts, I hurt.

But then Chad mans up and does something. The gimp suit. And that only makes shit worse though Violet and I enjoy the hell out of the show.

That night, curled in our nest of blankets in the attic, sweaty and boneless, her mouth on my chest, she asks, "What the fuck is wrong with people?" I shrug, fingers twining into her long hair, curling around the locks, and I give a yank, pulling her head back and up so that she is staring into my face, lips open, wet and sweet. "They ruin everything." Her eyes are hot, steely, dangerous like molten metal. I can see the oncoming storm even if she can't. The violent tantrum building inside of her small frame.

At times Violet will rant and rave, scream, punch, kick, and I will smirk, lost in the violence of her emotions. It is a gorgeous thing to behold and it always ends the same way: her in my arms, body quivering, lips hungry, hands eager. I practically salivate, never sated, as I wait, watching her with wolfish eyes.

"They have to go," she tells me evenly, face imperious. I nod my agreement, excited, and drop my furious grip on her. She props her chin on a fist, big eyes watching me, "Will you hurt them? For me?"

"Hurt them," I smirk, "or kill them?"

She smirks meanly in return, "They should die for what they've done."

"We'll be fucking stuck with them."

"Could be fun," she lifts a shoulder. "They'll certainly suffer."

I rest my head back, stare up at the ceiling, visions, fantasies of bloody and carnage taking over, the dark voices that still call out to me in my head, screaming. Sometimes they are so loud the only other thing I can hear is Violet's soothing tones as she strokes my hair, brings me back to myself.

"How do you want me to do it?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can think of something fitting. I have faith in you." And then she's trailing her little pink tongue down my chest, teeth dragging over one nipple, before resuming her journey along the coarse hair that leads to my dick, sucking the head into her mouth. My body arcs upward as I gasp. With a wet pop she releases me. "Being dead makes me so horny," she grins, big hazel eyes bright in the dim light.

"Fuck," I whine, "don't stop, Vi." She laughs around my cock and I can only gurgle some unintelligible sounds. When I find my voice, a groan escaping, I ask, "You want to help me with the fags? One for me, one for you?" And the smile she gives me, lips stretched around my hard thrumming flesh, the sweet vibrating hum of her pleasure, makes my heart soar even as my balls clench, ready to blow down her throat. And I can't think of a better way to spend the afterlife.


End file.
